


Picture Me, Wanting You

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Enemies Who Have Sex, Facials?, Frottage, Ginger Objectification, Hate Sex, I Had To Change The Tags Because I Changed The Direction, Inappropriate Behavior, Inappropriate Use of a Mobile Phone, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Open Relationships, Phone Sex, Redemption, Rough Sex, Soft!Lascelles, Trash Boys Being Bad, Unsolicited Dick Pics, face fucking, gratuitous fluff, mostly consensual, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Modern AU in which magic was a rumored thing that never took off in practice.Norrell finds and hooks up with Lascelles to work on Norrell's new book, detailing the history and dissolution of the long ago York Society of Magicians.Childermass and Lascelles do not get along. One night, Childermass receives a VERY interesting text message, and things spiral downhill (or uphill depending on how you see it) from there.Thanks as always to my wonderful beta reader emilycare <3Thank you Ilthit for the prompt!Updates will be regular.
Relationships: John Childermass/Henry Lascelles
Comments: 81
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU in which magic was a rumored thing that never took off in practice. 
> 
> Norrell finds and hooks up with Lascelles to work on Norrell's new book, detailing the history and dissolution of the long ago York Society of Magicians. 
> 
> Childermass and Lascelles do not get along. One night, Childermass receives a VERY interesting text message, and things spiral downhill (or uphill depending on how you see it) from there. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta reader emilycare <3
> 
> Thank you Ilthit for the prompt!
> 
> Updates will be regular.

Henry Lascelles was over again. He came here, to Mr. Norrell’s house several days a week now, to help Norrell with his latest passion project. It was beyond Childermass what Norrell could possibly see in that man that made him trust his word or crave his company, being that Henry Lascelles was a complete and utter prat. 

But, Norrell often picked up strays. That’s what Childermass himself was. Just a stray that Norrell had invited into his life, in the form of offering him a jack of all trades job as his chauffeur, maintenance man, unofficial butler (as if people had butlers these days outside of the insanely wealthy) and groundskeeper. Norrell liked unusual people. He was himself a very unusual man. And so it made sense that he’d befriend and work with someone as randomly unsuited to be his friend as Henry Lascelles. 

Norrell dressed like a man for whom fashion had ceased to have any relevance fifty years prior, in tweed jackets and corduroy trousers and muted argyle jumpers. Lascelles on the other hand was always in the latest fashions, wearing sleek button down shirts in muted colors that probably cost half of Childermass’ weekly salary. His copper hair always looking as if the wind had somehow blown it into the most dashing configuration purely by accident. 

Lately, Norrell had become obsessed with a group of regency era philosophers calling themselves The York Society of Magicians, and had begun to write a book on the subject. His books, while somewhat dry and (Childermass thought) needlessly detailed, were still well received by certain niche groups of academics who got hardons for obscure historical figures, and he’d become a wealthy man from the proceeds of his first three novels. They were good books. Childermass had read them all. They weren’t quite his  _ thing _ , not really his style, but Norrell was an excellent writer and while his books were not packed with stunning literary imagery or fraught with exciting plot twists, they were very illuminating. Childermass had ended up learning a lot more than he’d ever intended to about eccentric 19th century academia. 

He’d worked for Norrell for a long time now, virtually half of his life, and yes, he knew he should probably have gone to uni, should probably have met some nice girl and settled down to have kids somewhere in the suburbs, but he simply hadn’t had the urge. Everyone he’d gone to school with had either moved on to corporate positions, or had gone into construction, or teaching, or any number of other fields people usually ended up in. 

John Childermass however had developed a drinking problem (learning the behaviors from his rampantly alcoholic mother) and had ended up living on the streets for a while after leaving school. He’d become quite an accomplished grifter in his teens and had even done a little hustling on the side to make money. A brief, year long bout with heroin addiction ended up snapping him out of his wayward ways, and into a rehab program. Afterwards, when he’d left the program, feeling weak and shaky and not all that at home inside his own skin, a supportive uncle on his mother’s side had put him through a vocational course to learn auto mechanics. 

He’d used these skills, and his uncanny ability to do the jobs no one else wanted, to earn enough to support himself. While many of his street friends succumbed to addiction and violence, Childermass had delved into reading books in place of drink and drugs. He’d gotten a steady job at an auto mechanic’s shop, turned his skills away from sucking off blokes for money and tricking drunk tourists out of cash with clever ruses and quick fingers, and put them to use to make what his mother would have sneeringly called “an honest living”. It was a definite step up to say the least (though it didn’t pay quite as well). 

He’d met Norrell one day outside a supermarket of all places. The man had been purchasing a hand basket full of cans of soup (on sale of course), and one of the bags had burst, causing cans of chicken noodle to roll every which way. Childermass had watched Norrell, sweating and running around after soup cans for a moment with a bemused half smile on his face before pitching in and helping him collect them. This included slithering on his belly underneath Norrell’s car to fetch a can that had lodged itself up against the driver’s side tire, which in turn allowed Childermass to see how very worn down Norrell’s brake pads had become. 

Always looking for an angle to play to increase his income, he’d offered to fix Norrell’s brakes at a discount, and Norrell, ringing his hands and looking very stressed at his runaway soups, possibly in a more vulnerable mood than usual, had happily agreed. When Norrell came to collect his car, later the next day at the garage where Childermass worked, they’d got to chatting. Norrell had complained about the sorry state of his garden and his gutters, and Childermass had offered to help out. Norrell had asked if Childermass were interested in a part time job doing some chores around his house for pay, as he was not all that handy himself. The rest as they say, was history. 

Somehow, the part time job had morphed into a full time job. It was supposed to have taken a few weeks for Childermass to fix some things around Norrell’s ancient, rambling, Victorian style house, and instead, he’d stayed for almost 20 years. The fix it jobs had turned into help organizing Norrell’s massive personal library, and also with caring for his ancient vehicle and mowing the lawn, and then to visiting bookshops in the area to procure new volumes on subjects that fascinated Norrell. The things Norrell needed Childermass to do for him multiplied, as did his (modest yet adequate) salary, until he had somehow become the glue that held Gilbert Norrell’s life together. 

Childermass knew their relationship was more than a little codependent, and that he himself had a tendency to stay where it was comfortable. But he also knew that he needed Norrell, as a friend and employer, and that Norrell needed him. He found he enjoyed having all of his money come from one place, (rather than running hither and yon after a series of part time jobs), and that living in a spare room in Norrell’s house was easy, efficient and comfortable. 

They were a pair of eccentric bachelors, Norrell, now being in his late fifties and Childermass in his early forties, both unmarried and childless. Norrell did not now (nor ever) show the least bit of interest in women, or in men. Childermass assumed that he was either asexual, or simply too socially awkward and stressed by the idea of dating to try to find anyone. He’d never made a pass at Childermass, nor had he ever mentioned another human being in any way other than how they related to books. 

Childermass, for his part, had resigned himself to a bachelor's life. Dating women always seemed to involve a superstructure of expectations that he was ill equipped to fill, and dating men, steadily, outside of the drunken hookups he engaged in when the mood struck, seemed only marginally more appealing. He was not the sort to buy anyone flowers. Nor remember an anniversary, nor (god forbid) propose marriage. He went out to the local pubs every once in a while and went home with someone who struck his fancy. Both men and women seemed to find him appealing, as he had a rough sort of James Dean vibe. He dressed almost exclusively in worn blue jeans, faded black t-shirts and a battered leather motorcycle jacket he’d had for close to fifteen years. His motorcycle, (a slick, black Yamaha, nicknamed Brewer, that did not at all match his personality, now resting snugly next to Norrell’s ancient compact car in Norrell’s garage) made sure that the jacket was more than a fashion statement. He wore his dark, wavy, perpetually unkempt hair long and tied back in a messy ponytail at his nape. For some reason, though he was not precisely  _ handsome _ , his nose too narrow, his cheekbones too sharp, he appealed to a wide range of people who wanted to indulge in fantasies of fucking a mysterious stranger. He  _ looked _ like the sort of man who was up for a quick shag, and acted like the type who did not expect anyone to ring him up and ask for a second date, and no one did. And this suited Childermass just fine.

Norrell’s latest obsession, that of a bizarrely esoteric group of men who fancied themselves “theoretical magicians” in the early nineteenth century had consumed him to the point that he had somehow tracked down Henry Lascelles, whose great, great, great grandfather had apparently been in strict opposition to said society, and who’d helped Norrell’s great, great, great grandfather to shut down said society through the use of threats and political power moves. Apparently, there had been a time in English history when it was rumored that men could do magic, and a whole segment of the upper class had become convinced that they could resurrect these practices. Norrell’s ancestor and Lascelles’ ancestor had wished to corner the market on magical texts and (both apparently being utter cunts) had gone around the countryside, shutting down societies such as the York Society, for selfish purposes. 

Norrell was usually beyond hyper focused on the subjects he found fascinating, and the fact that this particular subject involved his own family tree had sent him half round the bend with obsession. Henry Lascelles, who seemed to care very little about anything outside of his position as editor for an extremely popular fashion magazine, (and ways to make his hair look as casually tousled and accidentally fetching as possible of course), had somehow grown similarly fascinated with their ancestral link. Both Lascelles and Norrell had been completely taken in by the subject of this mad group of crotchety old men who thought they could one day actually do real magic. 

At the outset, Lascelles had thrown several delicate, carefully crafted insults in Norrell’s direction. Little backhanded compliments that were clearly designed to undermine Norrell and establish Lascelles as the alpha male of the pair. But these clever little barbs only brushed like feathers, gently and ineffectively against the ironclad rhinoceros hide of Norrell’s complete and utter social obliviousness. He was totally unaware that Lascelles was trying to take him down a notch. 

And so when Lascelles remarked casually on the cheap material of Norrell’s jumper, Norrell readily agreed with him, and then bragged at how little he’d spent and asked Lascelles if he’d like the address of the wholesale clothing shop where he’d purchased it. Lascelles had surprisingly easily given up on his ploy for dominance, and settled into a companionable acquaintanceship that confounded Childermass. How two men who were so starkly opposed in style, outlook and behavior could spend so many hours together, discussing such a bizarrely niche subject was beyond him. He supposed the fact that they were discussing their own distant relatives meant that they were both really engaged in a form of historical navel gazing. Perhaps that was the unifying thing that lent cohesion to their unlikely friendship. 

Although Norrell, due to his oblivious nature, had been spared the majority of Lascelles’ catty bitch routine, Childermass was afforded no such luxury. He and Lascelles had immediately bristled at one another. There was something about Lascelles, his dismissiveness and entitled attitude that drove Childermass up the wall with irritation. And Lascelles, for his part, seemed offended by Childermass’ mere existence, as if he smelled something unpleasant whenever Childermass entered the room. 

Childermass knew that his reactions, the tightening of his eyes and the grim frown that he could not stop from settling on his face whenever he saw the red haired man, was only fuel to the fire of Lascelles’ contempt. That if he, Childermass could act as Norrell did, act as if he were completely unaware of Lascelles’ subtle little insults and sniffs and looks down his nose, that Lascelles would give up and leave him be. But he  _ couldn’t _ ignore it. He couldn’t pretend to be unaware of the fact that Henry Lascelles was disgusted by him. He couldn’t for the life of him ignore the cold, condescending glint in Lascelles dark brown eyes, or unsee the delicate sneer on his face whenever he looked in Childermass’ direction. It made Childermass seethe with anger. And the fact that the posh wanker got to him so much, got under his skin in this way, made him even angrier. 

And so, he couldn’t help but respond to Lascelles' condescension with little barbs and passive aggressive actions of his own. He’d never do anything overt. He wouldn’t dare give Lascelles the satisfaction. But he found other ways to needle the man. For instance, when he’d been working on Norrell’s car, (he’d replaced the fan belt recently) and his hands were covered in grease and oil, he enjoyed standing rather too near Lascelles and wiping at his blackened fingers with a filthy cloth, just to see the man’s eyes go wide with horror at the possibility of getting accidentally smeared, to watch him swiftly shy away from Childermass light a frightened colt. 

This particular move had the unfortunate side effect of making Norrell nervous about his books getting stained as well, his small blue eyes darting about to check on nearby volumes whenever Childermass entered his study with dirty hands. But it was acceptable collateral damage. Childermass was willing to inflict a little nervousness on his employer if it meant seeing that satisfying look of panic on Lascelles’ face. 

Sometimes, when Lascelles and Norrell chatted their way out to the front drive so that Lascelles could get into his posh roadster to head home, Childermass would saunter over, insert himself into the conversation by bringing up some random historical tidbit, and then lean against the door or the bonnet of Lascelles’ vehicle. This indolent leaning, or the placing of Childermass’ clean yet oil stained hand on the glossy, lacquered surface of Lascelles’ car, made the other man veritably twitch with rage. And this in turn caused a sort of self satisfied glow to bloom inside Childermass’ chest. 

These actions, in combination with some well placed, backhanded comments of his own, meant that he and the pale, red haired man were almost always engaged in a delicate battle for supremacy. It became a sort of game to Childermass. How many times, and in how many subtle ways could he enrage Lascelles during the course of one visit to Norrell’s house. 

Lascelles responded in kind, making comments about Childermass’ probable lack of higher education, general dirtiness and unsatisfactory level of personal hygiene, while Childermass made allusions to Lascelles being spoiled, weak, cowardly and soft. All of these insults were carefully veiled in the thinnest veneer of polite conversation, and it was safe to say that all of them flew well over Norrell’s head. Gilbert Norrell, for all his fascination with historical figures and literature, and his love of books, had no idea what transpired between real flesh and blood people. He had the emotional intelligence of a toothbrush, and therefore had no clue that his assistant and his editor and co-author were always subtly at one another’s throats. 

The fact that Childermass badly wanted to fuck Lascelles did nothing to emeliorate his irritation with the man. If given the opportunity, if he could simply press a button and rid himself of the indignity of wanting to shag the insufferable, foppish man, he would slam his palm down on it in an instant, but no such button existed, and Childermass  _ did _ very much want to fuck Lascelles, and that was just that. 

The first time he’d realized he was attracted to the man came as a total surprise. Lascelles was decidedly not Childermass’ usual type. He preferred stockier, darker skinned men and curvy, studious looking women. He liked glasses and dreadlocks, bohemians, students, goth boys and punk girls. Henry Lascelles meanwhile looked like every cruel, condescending rich kid who’d sneered at him on the street from within the shelter of their ever present group of giggling friends, while he, Childermass, sneered back from his position of homelessness and drunkenness on countless street corners. 

Lascelles thinness, his anemic paleness, the snobby look on his face, all of this should have been a cure for Childermass’ lust, not an accelerant, and yet, after spending no more than a few days in the man’s company, and this only peripherally, Childermass was ashamed to discover that Lascelles’ face and body had started making cameo appearances in his masturbatory fantasies. He’d tried to rid himself of the errant thoughts, thoughts of Lascelles’ thin lipped mouth around his cock, or Lascelles’ slender, pale legs draped over his shoulders, but trying to push the thoughts away only made them come back stronger. It wasn’t long before Childermass was regularly rubbing one out to thoughts of fucking Lascelles in a broad range of very explicit scenarios and positions. 

Eventually, the shame he felt over what his cock wanted, and how it differed so starkly from what his mind thought was decent or advisable, faded to a nagging whisper, and he gave in to full on pornographic fantasies. Fantasies starring a man that he could barely tolerate being near for more than five minutes at a stretch. Human sexuality was a funny thing, and having been around the proverbial block more than a few times, Chilermass knew that the things that made him come were not always the things that he’d ever want to experience in real life. Wanking to thoughts of Lascelles, on his knees, his haughty face glistening with streaks of Childermass semen, was not a thing that Childermass ever planned on actually trying to bring into the cold light of day. He would simply enjoy his fantasies in the privacy of his own bedroom and let it be what it was. 

And besides, the man had given very clear indications that any sexual advances from Childermass would be unwelcome in the extreme. Every fiber of Lascelles being telegraphed a burning resentment and a deep disgust for Childermass, and the fact that this did nothing to cool Childermass’ ardor, (if anything it inflamed it) meant that he might need to hash this out with a therapist at some point. It  _ did _ reassure him that his fantasies seemed to center pretty relentlessly around he, Childermass being the dominant partner. He thought incessantly of forcing Lascelles to suck his cock, of fucking Lascelles hard and fast with a fist wrapped tightly in his copper hair, of coming down his throat, or on his face or deep inside his arse. He dreamed of slapping Lascelles’ face, of choking him until he could feel the man’s heartbeat hammer against the palm of his hand. He dreamed of spanking Lascelles’ backside until it was pink and raw, and fucking his face, of making him gag until tears ran down his reddened cheeks. 

Rarely had his sexual imaginings ever been this rough or this dominant. Despite his tough looks, he was really more of a vanilla lover. Dominance took a lot of energy and dedication, and it wasn’t something he felt like delving too deep into with one night stands. Too many chances for misunderstandings and too many opportunities to harm a stranger by mistake, before those sorts of conversations could be had. And when you were shagging someone you’d just met at a pub three hours prior, slapping them around and choking them really wasn’t a thing you could just sort of slip into. 

But Lacelles was different. In Childermass’ heated imaginings, Lascelles didn’t want long conversations about boundaries and needs. He’d probably scoff at being politely asked for his consent. Childermass had a strong suspicion that the man was insanely kinky. There was something in the prissy way he sat, one leg folded over the other, just so. Or how he was always plucking at his clothes in a dissatisfied manner, as if they were never straight or clean enough or never hung on his body in just the right way. His eyes, dark in contrast to his flame colored hair, had this way of going languid and soft, then sharp and flinty in a split second, and his mouth, those thin lips, always pursed, ready to voice disapproval. Childermass wanted to roughly kiss that mouth, to force his tongue between those disapproving lips.

Lascelles was a control freak, that much was obvious, and control freaks often made the most insatiable submissives. They longed for someone to take the reins and boss them around, slap them around, use them and bruise them, to give them any excuse to give up that iron control and become a flushed, gasping mess. In Childermass’ fantasies, men like Henry Lascelles secretly longed to submit to the will of someone who could finally take over and give them a bloody rest from the endless, self imposed list of responsibilities they labored under. And so Childermass thought relentlessly about being the dominant partner to give Lascelles all that he wanted. 

If only the man weren’t such an insufferable twat. If only he were just a little bit softer, the tiniest bit welcoming. If only he would give Childermass the smallest inclination that he didn’t hate Childermass’ guts. But no, Henry Lascelles was unwaveringly rude and endlessly condescending to John Childermass. 

And so Childermass kept up their little competitive game, their dance of resentment during the days, while carefully hiding any indication that he spent his nights fucking his fist and thinking of Lascelles writhing beneath him, bitten and bruised and coming undone. It was confusing and frustrating, but it was also, if Childermass were completely honest, very, very enjoyable. 

Today, Lascelles and Norrell were holed up as they usually were, in Norrell’s study, discussing the very short list of books that the York Society has boasted to be in their possession as of 1806. There were only four volumes, and, according to Norrell, none of them were very well written or insightful on the subject of practical magic, (an imaginary thing to begin with, along the lines of alchemy and unicorns), but the very fact that the York Society’s library was so pathetic seemed to tickle both men. It was as if they were reminiscing about students they both knew from secondary school who they’d disliked and had now discovered that they’d made very little of themselves in their later years. 

Childermass had avoided them, being that this was the third time this week Lascelles had visited, and he was honestly not in the mood today. He’d had trouble sleeping the night before due to a twinge in his low back and having had too much caffeine late in the day, and the thought of looking at Lascelles' tempting/mocking face was more than he had the patience for. And so he gave the study a wide berth during the day. He could hear Norrell’s over-excited voice and the (always) snooty yet still somehow golden toned interjections of Lascelles, contradicting him or agreeing with him (almost arbitrarily it seemed) through the door when he passed it. 

Whenever Norrell was home alone, he left the study door ajar. It was easier that way for him to call for Childermass to ask him to do this or that thing. When Lascelles was over however, it was Lascelles who made sure the door was shut. He didn’t go so far as to lock it. It wasn’t his house after all, but Childermass got the distinct impression that Lascelles  _ wished _ to do so. To lock Childermass out so that he could be the star of Norrell’s attention, and not have to put up with Childermass’ insolent attitude. 

This time however, Childermass was grateful for the barrier of the closed study door. He had a tension headache and his eyes felt gritty from too little sleep. He’d spent the afternoon up to this point in a prolonged email exchange with a book dealer in Rome, haggling over the cost of a very rare copy of an old text Norrell had been hunting down for years. Norrell’s taste in books often conflicted with his frugal spending habits, and so Childermass often found himself in the unenviable position of trying to haggle people down to what Norrell thought of as a more reasonable price. Childermass had grown quite skilled at haggling as a result, which he supposed was a useful skill if one didn’t enjoy having friends. 

He had just walked past the door to the study and was making his way down the hall when the door swung open and he heard Henry Lascelles’ voice calling for him. Well, ‘calling for him’ was a stretch. What he did was to say “you there!” in the most imperious tone he could manage. 

“You there! Fetch Mr. Norrell and I some coffee would you?”

Lascelles tried very hard never to address Childermass by name, preferring to rely on a series of generic titles (‘you there’, and ‘whatsyourname’ being two of his favorites). This only made Childermass wonder, perhaps a bit more than absently, what his name would sound like on Lascelles’ lips. Maybe spoken breathlessly, in a strained voice, while Childermass’ hand was wrapped around his throat. 

“Fetch your own coffee,  _ sir, _ ” Childermass spat irritably over his shoulder. “Mr. Norrell doesn’t have a maid, and you have two functioning legs.” He was in no mood for Lascelles’ nonsense today. 

“That’s not a very nice way to treat your boss’ guest,” Lascelles shot back, his waspish tone causing Childermass to stop in his tracks and turn around to face him. Lascelles had stepped fully out into the hallway and had closed the study door behind him. Childermass knew he’d done this so that he could shield Norrell from how he really and truly wished to speak to Childermass. 

Lascelles was wearing a deep blue, flawlessly tailored (likely bespoke) button down shirt that hugged his narrow torso and accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and a pair of black dress trousers that were just a hair too tight not to be purposefully sexy. His pale skin, in contrast to the dark blue material of the shirt, shone like white silk, his copper hair contrasted with his dark brown eyes and creamy skin giving him the look of some sort of fairy tale prince. The first three buttons of the shirt were undone, exposing several inches of Lascelles’ long, slender neck to Childermass’ swiftly assessing glance. A vast array of sordid thoughts bloomed in Childermass’ mind, unbidden. Thoughts of lathing that white real estate with the flat of his tongue, of gripping that neck with his stained fingers. 

“You are  _ Norrell’s _ guest, not  _ mine _ ,” Childermass explained, patiently, as if he were speaking to a child too young to know better, and in a tone he hoped would rankle. Simultaneously he shoved thoughts of grabbing Lascelles and crashing their mouths together down and away with no small amount of effort. “Also, I’m not a  _ servant _ , so, the kitchen is that way,” he indicated with a twitch of his head. “I’m assuming you know how to make a cup of coffee. It’s not rocket science.” 

Lascelles already thin lips pressed into a colourless line and his eyes went flinty. Childermass felt a flush of triumph as the man took a few stiff steps closer and fixed Childermass with a look that could cut paper. “I know you come from a  _ rough _ sort of neighborhood,” he said through gritted teeth, his chest rising and falling faster with his swiftly building anger, “but that’s no excuse to act like an indolent prat every time you see me. Just because  _ I _ made something of myself, while you faffed about in pubs, shagging slags and swindling gullible tourists, doesn’t mean you didn’t pick up at least  _ some _ concept of how to speak to people properly.” 

Childermass fought to keep the shocked look from his face as Lascelles’ words made two things very clear to him. The first being that Norrell had obviously told Lascelles quite a bit about Childermass’ past. That he had been a pickpocket, and a grifter and that he’d come from the streets. This caused a surprisingly painful stab of hurt indignation to lance through his chest. He had trusted Norrell. For all that the man was cheap and fussy and incurably eccentric, he’d never assumed that Norrell would give away such private things about Childermass to such an obviously unctuous social climber like Lascelles. 

The second thing that became suddenly clear was that this was the first time the two of them had been alone together. Ever since Lascelles had begun visiting Norrell’s house, a few months ago, he had consistently been in Norrell’s company, and had by necessity been forced to be more polite than he wanted to be. Now, the second there was a closed door between Norrell and the two of them, Lascelles had let loose with the most venomous thing he could come up with. The man didn’t waste any time did he? But this also meant that Childermass wasn’t constrained by having to hold up a forced veneer of politeness either. 

He stepped closer to Lascelles, closing the gap between them until he stood no more than half a foot away, a distance reserved for people who were speaking privately, or about to kiss perhaps, but not an appropriate amount of personal space when one is socially offended. Not an appropriate amount of space apart if one wished to  _ avoid _ a fight. 

“Insult me all you want,” Childermass said, looking unflinchingly into Lascelles’ almost black eyes. “You’re still going to have to make your own, damn, coffee.” He virtually spat the words one at a time into Lascelles’ face and rejoiced when the man’s color changed from white to pink as anger caused a flush to bloom across his cheeks. Lascelles looked torn, as if there were words pressing themselves against the bared rictus of his teeth, but also as if he could not force them out into the air. He was a man clearly teetering on the edge of kicking things up a notch. 

Without waiting for a response, Childermass turned and walked away. Lascelles, thankfully, did not call out any more insults, nor come after him and grab him by the arm, which Childermass had half expected him to do. Childermass walked steadily away, and he could almost feel Laselle’s eyes, like scorching coals against his back. A few seconds later, he heard the door to Norrell’s study thump closed again, but at this point, he had already reached the turn in the upstairs hallway and had walked out of sight. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get pretty spicy in this chapter. 
> 
> Also, I kind of unintentionally (?) ended up making this also about the aroace bromance between Childermass and Norrell. I went where my meandering imagination led me, and I love their relationship. Don't worry. Piles of childercelles smut is also included.

By the time Childermass climbed into his bed in his modest room on the third floor of Norrell’s house, he was exhausted, and it was close to midnight. It had been a long, busy day, on top of his poor sleep from the prior night and the stress of his confrontation with Lascelles. He felt wrung out and aching from the tiring events of the day. He thankfully burrowed under the covers and switched off his bedside lamp, sighing as he found a comfortable position and tried to calm his mind from the racing thoughts that usually plagued him in the evenings.

His brain taunted him with images of Lascelles’ angry face, Lascelles’ dark eyes, and that damnable gap in his shirt that had allowed Childermass a tantalizing glimpse of the top of Lascelles’ chest. That briefest glimpse of delicate collarbone and just a hint of copper chest hair that would not be easy to scrub from his imagination. His cock perked up at the memories of how close they’d been standing to one another, the incredible tension between them, but Childermass ignored the tingling in his groin.

Masturbating to thoughts of Lascelles, at midnight, after a long day would not help him get to bed on time, as such sessions usually took the better part of an hour to fully engage in the way Childermass enjoyed most. He mollified himself with the fact that he could have a wank tomorrow morning, if the mood struck. That way, he could simply step into the shower, instead of fumbling about in his room for a cloth to wipe himself off with, and sleeping with a thin veneer of dried semen all over his chest and belly.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and evenly for a while, willing the thoughts of Henry Lascelles’ flushed cheeks and narrow waist to leave his mind. It worked...eventually, and he slowly felt himself drifting off into the welcome arms of sleep.

Only to be woken up quite rudely and abruptly a few minutes later by the loud chime of a text coming in on his mobile. He would normally have ignored it and gone back to sleep, but the loud burst of music reminded him that he hadn’t put the mobile on mute before going to bed. If he didn’t do that now, any number of random calls or texts (sometimes Norrell forgot what time it was and called him at 4am to have him fetch something), could conceivably wake him the minute he’d drifted off again.

He reached blearily for the mobile, intending to turn the sound off without even reading the text, but then saw it was from an unidentified number. This was unusual. Even when Childermass picked up a lover from a pub or from his travels around town, and they exchanged numbers (which was rare), he would put some identifier into his phone so he could find the number again later if he needed to. Or so he could tell who it was reaching out to him. “Blond from coffee shop” or “Nigel from pub” or “Sally, glasses and piercing”. He didn’t like strangers reaching out to him from unidentified numbers. And he hadn’t picked anyone up in almost six months now. Had been going through a self imposed dry spell and a sort of mild depression that came around every couple of years.

What was even more unusual, this text had an image attached. Who was sending him a photo, after midnight on a weeknight, from an unidentified number? The book dealers and contacts he had with Norrell’s acquaintances were all carefully catalogued in his mobile by name as well. Frowning, he clicked on the message and opened the photo.

It took him a second or two to understand what he was looking at, but then, as his eyes adjusted and sorted out the shadows from light and the sideways angle of the shot, he realized he had been sent a picture of a man’s cock.

His grogginess from being woken up by the text fled immediately, and he was suddenly very much alert. The cock in question was a nice one. Long and slender, with a pale shaft and a rosy tip. It was fully erect, and a man’s hand was wrapped gently around the base. The hand did not grip with the tense stranglehold of some more urgent and aggressive pornographic images he’d seen, but more a gentle hold, just enough to lift and display the man’s erection for the lens of his camera. The light was somewhat dim, and so it was hard to divine much evidence about whose penis this might be from just the one photo.

Childermass could see a pair of testicles, soft looking, rounded and shadowy, and covered with a dusting of dark, carefully trimmed pubic hair. They disappeared off screen under the bottom edge of the man’s fist at the base of his cock, but it was hard to tell what color the hair was. It was a shot taken from as close up as possible, in dim lighting, slightly from the side, so that the man’s lower belly (and blurry trail of dark hair leading down to his cock) was just barely in the frame. The man’s skin was pale. He was undeniably white, but that was the only defining characteristic that could be gleaned from the one photo.

Childermass was not a hormone addled teenager. Just the sight of a strange man’s penis was not usually enough to get him to a place of sexual excitement, but something about the intimacy of this shot, the gentle displaying of the cock in the photo, as if this man were offering his penis up to Childermass for his approval and enjoyment, sent a spark of fire through his belly. He found himself immediately lost in thoughts of sinking his mouth down, over that rosy head, and sliding that pale shaft past his lips until the head of this stranger’s cock lodged pleasingly at the back of his throat. Perhaps of running gentle fingertips through the soft hair that covered those testicles. His own cock was filling swiftly in response to this tempting visual stimuli.

Who could it be? He hadn’t given his number out to anyone recently. His last rendezvous with a male partner had happened around Christmas time, and it was now early June, and he was almost certain he’d never seen this particular member before. Perhaps it was just some horny exhibitionist, sending unsolicited dick pics to random strangers. The pure gall this would take, not to mention the lack of respect for whomever might be on the other end of the text was daunting to imagine. But this didn’t feel random. It felt intimate. As if this person knew him, and was offering him a gift. Or perhaps….

It couldn’t be… Childermass actually shook his head at the thought that Lascelles would send him such an intimate portrait of his cock. For starters, Lascelles didn’t have his mobile number. He’d have no reason to, and Childermass certainly hadn’t offered it up. And secondly, Lascelles loathed him, couldn’t stand the sight of him. This picture was not aggressive, nor was it particularly lude. If Lascelles had wanted to shock him, there were far more explicit photos he could have sent as a first effort than a modest picture of his lovely erection.

Unless…. This was Lascelles' form of some sort of intimidation tactic. Unless he was under the misconception that Childermass was straight, and that the sight of a penis, Lascelles’ penis in particular, might be upsetting or unsettling to him (rather than an extreme turn on). It sounded like something Lascelles would do. A strange play for dominance, a way to shake Childermass up without having to own to it. It certainly made more sense than an invitation to become involved in a sort of playful pornotraphic exchange.

All of this went through Childermass’ head as his eyes roamed over the picture displayed on the screen of his mobile phone, and he felt his body ramping up to a place from which it would not be able to return without him touching himself, finding release in the form of a much needed orgasm. His intense conflict with Lascelles earlier in the day mixed with the picture before him into a heady fantasy that it was in fact Lascelles who’d sent the picture. That Lascelles wanted him back, even if it was in his own twisted way. Despite the fact that the photo could have been sent by any number of men, Childermass became convinced that he was looking at Henry Lascelles’ cock.

He swiftly rolled onto his back and took hold of his aching prick. He slept in the nude, and so it was a simple matter of tossing the sheets aside and slowly beginning to stroke himself while his eyes continued soaking in the details of the gorgeous cock displayed on the screen held up in front of his face. He let the fantasy take shape and play out as he continued staring at the pretty, pale cock in the photo and let his own hand stroke the stiff, hot skin of his prick, lazily at first, and then with increased pressure and speed as his excitement grew.

In his mind, he saw Lascelles arriving at the house tomorrow, taking Childermass aside, pulling him into some secluded store room in Norrell’s house, his face at first painted over with an angry expression, as he lead Childermass away with a rough hand on his arm, but softening the moment they were alone. He’d pull Childermass into a private place, and whispering to him, very close, he’d say _Did you get my little present last night?_

 _I did_ , Childermass would reply. _What exactly did you expect me to do about that?_

Lascelles would not miss a beat. _I wanted you to touch yourself, to make yourself come while you looked at it_ , he’d respond with a wicked grin, biting his lower lip and stepping closer to Childermass. _Did you?_ Fantasy Lascelles would ask, cocking a copper coloured eyebrow and piercing Childermass with an intent look. _Did you touch yourself?_

 _Yes_ , Childermass would respond breathlessly, stepping closer to Lascelles and wrapping his arms around that narrow waist, he’d pull the man flush against him. _I did. It was so bloody hot. It made me come all over myself_. He imagined kissing Lascelles, rough and urgent and the man melting against him. He knew this was not how Lascelles would react in real life, if he ever let Childermass near him. He knew the man would be colder, cruel, more triumphant, but right now, as his eyes soaked up the erotic image presented to them, he let himself get lost in the fantasy, to get lost in Lascelles' far too kind imaginary embrace.

Childermass’ hand on his prick moved faster, his grip grew tighter as he pictured, for probably the fiftieth time what Lascelles’ mouth would taste like, what noises he’d make. Would he let out a sharp cry? Or a soft grunt? He imagined the feel of the man’s slender body, his narrow hip bones pressing against Childermass’s pelvis, feeling the stiffness of Lascelles’ cock through his trousers. Childermass moaned and increased the speed of his strokes, his eyes flitting rapidly over the cock in the picture and his hand squeezing a bit at the top of each stroke, as his fantasy played out between these sights and stimulations. His imaginings quickly gathered a sense of realism and heat from the feel of his hand, and the sight of the cock on the glowing screen before his eyes. It wouldn’t take much more to bring himself over the edge.

In his fantasy, he was ripping Lascelles’ posh shirt open, mouthing wet kisses against his neck and collarbone before pushing him down to his knees with hands on the man’s shoulders. Lascelles was sinking down willingly to kneel before him. Then he was feeding his cock into Lascelles’ hot, wet mouth, and winding his fingers through that sexy red hair, finally making a real mess of it with his grasping hands.

He let out a low moan at the thought of what that would feel like, being sucked off by Lascelles, while simultaneously picturing himself fellating the cock in the picture before his eyes. The combination, of imaging that his own hand was Lascelles’ mouth, and imagining that Lascelles’ cock was sliding past his own lips brought his climax rushing in like an ocean tide. He arched up off the mattress, his fist pumping, eyes rolling away from the photo and back into his head as his orgasm crested and punched through him.

“Fuck, fuck, Henry, _fuck_ ,” he gasped through gritted teeth, having barely enough self awareness to realize that he’d just cried out Lascelles’ first name in the throws of a massive orgasm. He was distantly bothered by the intimacy of such a thing, but couldn’t help himself. The waves of pleasure peaked and throbbed through him, his hot semen spilling out in splashes and streaks across his heaving chest and belly.

As the pulses of pleasure eased and ebbed and slowly dwindled away to a languid afterglow, he let his mobile phone fall next to him in the bed, and felt himself drifting off into a deep, senseless sleep. He had the wherewithal to smirk to himself just before unconsciousness pulled him under, that he’d ended up masturbating to thoughts of Lascelles and falling asleep covered in come anyway, despite his earlier precautions. And then he was out like a light.

_____

The next morning, Lascelles did not come over. This was disappointing to Childermass, who’d hoped to data mine the man’s facial expressions for clues as to whether or not he really had been the one to send the dick pic the night before. He toyed with the possibility of casually asking Norrell when his friend was due back, then abandoned the idea. Norrell, for all of his obliviousness, could easily latch onto one small thing Childermass said and repeat it to Lascelles. Childermass could almost hear him now:

It’s good to see you again Mr. Lascelles! Even Childermass asked when you’d be returning...

Just the mere thought of Norrell making some sort of typically thoughtless comment had Childermass avoiding the subject of Henry Lascelles like the plague.

This meant that today was also not an opportune time for Childermass to bring up the subject of Norrell’s betrayal. And besides, Norrell was so socially unaware of the nuances of how people interacted, that chiding him or accusing him of giving away deeply personal facts about Childermass’ past wouldn’t do much more than fluster him and make him defensive. He likely had no clue he’d made a faux pas, betrayed a confidence. And to be fair, Lascelles and Childermass did an adequate job of hiding the majority of their dislike for one another behind passive aggressive slights. If Norrell had known the extent of their ill will towards each other, he would likely not have told Lascelles the things he had. At least that is what Childermass hoped.

Childermass spent the day as he normally did, engaged in a long series of seemingly endless chores for Norrell. Fetching and organizing his mail. Helping him reorder a section of his extensive library, writing emails to rare book dealers and relaying messages from Norrell to their housekeeper Hannah. Norrell did not enjoy leaving the house very often, but sometimes he went to functions that he could find no way to avoid. Like to his sister’s house for dinner once a month, or to a family event he couldn’t wriggle out of, or to a rare book auction. When he went, he insisted that Childermass drive him, as he had grown more phobic in later years, and driving did a number on his nerves. They went in Norrell’s beat up old car. Childermass had asked once if Norrell had wanted to ride somewhere on the back of Brewer, but the man had gone as white as a sheet and had vehemently refused, and so the subject was never brought up again.

Later tonight, Childermass would be driving Norrell to the aforementioned sister’s dinner party, then picking him back up precisely three hours later, where he would listen to a long, familiar stream of complaints on the way home about the food, his sister’s prying questions about his personal life and a number of other things that made Norrell puff up with indignation at being forced to leave his house. Childermass would accept it all with good grace, as he always did. Interjecting here and there when Norrell said something patently ridiculous, in order to bring him back to reality.

Despite the fact that it was a busy day, with lots to do, Childermass was very distracted by memories of what had transpired the night before. Lascelles’ absence made Childermass nervous and he found himself checking his mobile multiple times over the course of the day to see if any new texts had come in.

This had the dual effect of making him feel foolish, and of subjecting him to multiple small stabs of disappointment when he didn’t find any new message notifications. He knew expecting more photos this soon, and during the day no less would be silly, but like many people in the digital age, he found himself looking for a new text every ten minutes, like a junkie waiting for news of his next fix.

The belief that it had been a picture of Lascelles’ cock in the text message was the only driving force behind why he was so excited to see more. Childermass wasn’t exactly sure why he was so certain that his rival had been the one to send the picture, it just seemed like the sort of kinky, invasive and searing hot thing that Lascelles would be into.

Not that he knew the man very well. For all he knew, Lascelles was straight. Despite the veritable mountain of circumstantial evidence that pointed to him probably liking men (his fashion sense, his somewhat effeminite mannerisms, his far too well ordered hair and a number of other stereotypes about gay men that Childermass had compiled over his dating life), he could be one of those quasi-rare straight men who just had a bit of sugar in their step. And looks could be deceiving. Most people, upon meeting Childermass for the first time, seeing his saturnine expression, his second hand t-shirts, his dirty nails, assumed that he was straight, and homophobically so. He’d lost out on quite a few opportunities when men he thought might have been interested in him had given him a wide berth due to these assumptions. So he couldn’t very well assume that Lascelles was bi or pan or gay simply because he had good hair and a limp wrist.

And he could be projecting a whole lot onto the tension between them. Childermass had read it as incredibly sexual, if combative, while from Lascelles point of view, the simmering heat behind his eyes when he glared at Childermass could be nothing more than simple hatred. Hate and anger masqueraded, at times convincingly, as lust. Both involved dilated eyes, faster breath, sustained looks.

And then there was the stark contrast between the way Lascelles treated him in person from the soft, intimate feeling of the dick pic from early this morning, that Childermass found himself second guessing the identity of the photo’s sender several times during the course of the day.

By the time he’d picked Norrell up from his sister’s family dinner gathering, he was incredibly distracted and tied up in his thoughts about what it all meant.

Even Norrell noticed. Which was saying a lot.

“What’s gotten into you?” the small man asked him, after climbing into the passenger side seat of the car, and riding in silence for a few moments. “You’ve been quiet and distracted all day.”

“It’s nothing,” Childermass grumbled.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Norrell replied with a sniff, but then, since he was Gilbert Norrell and was not overly interested in anything outside the pages of his books, he changed the subject to the dryness of his sister’s chicken and the fact that they’d run out of white wine, forcing him to drink a rather uninspired red, and on the injustices of drinking red with fowl in the first place.

Childermass let Norrell’s familiar complaints wash over him. He was unsure why he found such comfort in his friend and employer’s consistently persnickety mood. Perhaps he just found Norrell strangely charming. His diminutive stature and his nervous blue eyes, and his salt and pepper hair that he wore shorn close, but was always sticking up in odd directions...all of this combined to make him sort of adorable. In the way an angry baby bird is adorable.

And, truth be told, Childermass recognized many of Norrell’s nitpicky traits in himself. He however, had done the work to keep them from coming to the surface as often as Norrell’s did. There weren’t so very many differences between him and Gilbert Norrell. Norrell was a version of Childermass that Childermass had fought hard to suppress and dissolve. Childermass found fault with those around him. He had strong urges to order things and make things neat and clean. He had a sharp and critical eye. Perhaps it was only the persistant desire for sex, and the possession of a more socially appealing body type that had made Childermass who he was and had left Norrell alone with his books?

The man did seem happy with the way his life had turned out. Or rather, he did not seem unhappy. He leaned on Childermass relentlessly, and Childermass, god help him, loved to have someone relying on him. Someone he could help and care for, without all the sticky attachments of sugary romantic love or the unpredictable combustibility of sexual attraction to muck things up. And in truth, he respected Norrell’s intellectual prowess and found his insights fascinating, and this, combined with being needed by Norrell, made their association a pleasant one for Childermass. He doubted anyone else would have put up with Norrell for this long otherwise.

He still marvelled at how Norrell and Lascelles could spend so much time together, talking endlessly about their cherished York Society, and pouring over Norrell’s notes on his new book. It was a thing about Lascelles, this interest in Norrell’s book, that gave the otherwise shallow man some depth in Childermass’ estimation. Henry Lascelles was unpredictable and hard to categorize. This much Childermass was coming to understand. On the surface, he seemed to be the perfect archetype of the spoiled playboy. A wealthy man with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement to the time and energy (and attention) of those around him. Childermass knew that Lascelles headed up a very talented creative department for one of London’s most popular fashion magazines and shuddered at what it must be like to work under a man like Henry Lascelles.

According to Norrell, Lascelles had taken a sabbatical to do some inner reflection and unwind from the constant demands of the job, and when Norrell had rung him up to ask about his ancestor’s involvement in the shutting down of the York Society of Magicians, Lascelles had been only too happy to travel north for a few weeks to work alongside Norrell on the book. This meant that Lascelles, who seemed to be dedicated to surrounding himself with modernity (the latest smartphone, his sleek roadster, his flawless fashion sense), must have an interest in history as well.

Lascelles had family in the area, a brother, if Norrell remembered correctly, and was continuing to work for the magazine in a limited capacity from home, (now a rented flat a ten minute drive from Norrell’s house), and so he did not come over every day. He was always up to something, according to Norrell. Researching new venues for photo shoots, recruiting new models, writing emails, going over layouts and set mock ups, jumping off and on work meetings via zoom or mobile phone. And yet, he still took a lot of time out of his week to shut himself away in the study of a squirrelly, eccentric man he had nothing in common with, other than the fact that their ancestors had both been prats. It was astounding to Childermass, but he supposed it made sense.

Childermass pulled up and into Norrell’s garage and cut the engine. Norrell, as always, uttered a quick “thank you for driving,” before gathering his battered messenger bag and fleeing for the safety and solitude of his study. Childermass, as always, made sure the garage was well ordered and locked up, before slowly sauntering inside to see if Norrell needed anything before he retired to his own room for the night.

Norrell told him he was fine, his nose already stuck inside a large, ancient looking volume, and so Childermass went upstairs. He’d eaten earlier in the kitchens. Hannah, the housekeeper, was a bit sweet on him, and always laid out a special plate for him for supper. He thought she was quite attractive, with her dark hair and soft figure, but he knew that sleeping with someone you work with every day was a recipe for disaster, and so he kept their interactions flirtatious but respectful.

On his way up the stairs, his mobile vibrated inside his back pocket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a lot of ... I won't say "pining" in this chapter, because that's not what it is. But lets just say, Childermass is UP IN HIS HEAD about this Lascelles person. 
> 
> Also, I might have a bit of a thing for red heads. [correction] I have more than a bit of a thing for John Heffernan. He is and always will be THE Henry Lascelles to me. Book Childermass and show Childermass sort of blend for me in my fic imagination, but Lascelles is always Heffernan. He does catty bitch so so so well.

Childermass’ heart skipped a beat at feeling the familiar buzz of the phone’s vibrate function in his jeans pocket, and he instantly hated that his heart skipped a beat. He was a man in his 40s, having had decades of wild sexual experiences, and here he was, heart pounding, suddenly taking the stairs up to his room two at a time so that he could be alone in order to check his mobile for some randy pic of another man’s cock. 

He made himself wait until he’d shut and locked his door before pulling his mobile phone out and swiping it open. There was another text. From the same unknown number. 

There was another image attached.

Childermass felt himself growing excited, simply from the red notification box and the tiny paper clip that indicated that a picture had been sent. His breath came faster and he had half an erection already as he tapped the notification with his thumb and waited the two seconds for the image to pop open on the screen. 

This time the picture was from an overhead angle. The man had clearly taken the shot by holding his mobile’s camera above his cock, whereas the last one had been lower and from the side. The shot had been taken from in front of his face, so that what could be seen in the picture was his lower belly, the tops of his slender thighs, and the head of his cock, prominently displayed and taking up a good bit of the screen. Childermass heard himself take in a sharp breath as he realized the the head of this stranger’s prick was glistening with precum, and that a droplet of it had oozed, leaving a snail’s trail of gleaming wetness, down the side of the shaft, disappearing into the shadowy darkness of his groin below.

_Sweet Jesus_. 

Childermass was stiff and throbbing within seconds of looking at the image on his screen. The picture was an open invitation. It called to him to sink his mouth down on that slick cock head, to taste the salt and sour of the precum seeping from the tip, or maybe to climb into the man’s lap and ease it deep inside him. The photographer was clearly very sexually excited, his cock, stiff and pink and leaking. Childermass could almost see the gentle throb of a heartbeat along it’s shadowy length. He moaned and rubbed a hand absently over his aching prick inside his trousers. 

He had no choice at this point but to bring himself off while looking at it. He opened his zip and sat on the edge of his bed, reaching a hand inside his pants and grasping his already aching cock. He began stroking himself toward orgasm with little preamble. This was accomplished quickly, far more quickly than he’d intended. The sight of that thin trail of wetness, the thick, pink swelling of the head of this man’s cock in the foreground, had Childermass teetering on the brink of climax after perhaps only thirty seconds of slow stroking. 

What made the excitement all the more urgent was the knowledge that the man who’d sent the picture had almost certainly brought himself off shortly after sending it. There were very few people who could get themselves to such an obvious state of arousal without finishing themselves off, and mental images of what that would look like, would sound like if it were Henry Lascelles doing the coming, had Childermass tingling and on edge. 

The mystery man had used the flash this time, which had the effect of making the tip of his cock brightly lit and explicit, while casting his body hair and skin color into dimness by contrast, and so it was still impossible to tell the man’s exact coloring. Childermass though, in the few remaining seconds of conscious thought before he pulled himself over the edge into a spectacular orgasm, grew convinced that his hair was red. _Red_ , copper, flame coloured hair. _Oh Christ_. He swore and gasped as he came, bending over, curling in on himself at the force of the pleasure that twisted in his gut. 

He regained his equilibrium with a hand and lap covered with semen, breathless and loose from the speed and strength of his climax. Putting his mobile aside, he went and took a quick shower before bed, then, even though it was only 10pm, he climbed under the covers and fell quickly into an exhausted sleep. 

_______

  
  


The next morning Lascelles _did_ come over, and this presented a whole new set of uncomfortable situations that differed from the day before. 

It was not that Childermass had to spend any time in the man’s company if he didn’t wish to. He could avoid Lascelles for most of the day if that’s what he truly wanted. Norrell was often too distracted by their working together on the book to call for Childermass every twenty minutes like he normally did, and so Childermass was free to ghost about the house, doing his work unnoticed by the two men in the study. 

In the beginning, several weeks ago now, when Lascelles had first started coming for his visits, Childermass had set up shop in his usual place, at his desk in Norrell’s study. From there he would make phone calls to book dealers, pay bills, write emails on Norrell’s hopelessly out of date desktop computer, and chat with Norrell about history and philosophy if the mood struck. 

Lascelles pretty quickly put a stop to this however. He’d immediately asked Childermass if he were Norell’s ‘receptionist’ and if Childermass wouldn’t mind vacating so that Lascelles and Norrell could have some privacy. Childermass had bristled immediately, and said that he was Norrell’s _personal assistant_ and that this was where he always sat, saying _I’ll stay where I am if it's alright with you sirs,_

Norrell, bless him, had piped up in Childermass’ defense. _Oh yes! Childermass is my right hand man! Anything we say to each other can be heard by him. He’s as silent as the grave he is._

And still, the simple fact that Lascelles had _wanted_ Childermass to leave, that he’d sniffed and looked down his nose at Childermass, had ruined the air of studious comradery that usually marked his afternoons in Norrell’s study. As if the things Lascelles wanted to discuss with Norrell were somehow too important to be heard by the likes of Childermass. This attitude, this ‘I’m too good for you’ snark that Childermass had received from countless posh, public school boys in his youth, and from countless wealthy women at pubs and gallery openings and cocktail parties, always made him seethe inside. 

And yet he tried his hardest not to show it. “Never let them see you hurt” his mother had told him. One of the few things she’d taught him, outside of how to pick a pocket and how to abuse drugs and alcohol by example, that had served Childermass well over the years. Regardless of how he felt about Lascelles, Childermass kept a mask of cool detachment in place at all times. And as an added bonus, his detached attitude seemed to enrage Lascelles. The man was not nearly so good at hiding his emotions as Childermass. His mouth would press into a thin, white line. His eyes would go flinty and his cheeks would flush. 

Childermass hated how the sight of Lascelles' angry face sparked off these twin feelings inside him of glee and arousal, but that’s the way things had played out. Nothing to be done about it. And now, after weeks spent somewhat in the man’s company, it had become a feedback loop. Childermass would do something to anger Lascelles. Lascelles would flush and his eyes would go dark, and this in turn would cause the most filthy fantasies to populate Childermass’ imagination. Which only made him want to goad Lascelles more. 

Today however, Childermass was torn. He wanted to see Lascelles, if only to gage if there were any changes to the man’s behavior after the two dick pics. There was still a chance that it wasn’t Lascelles who had sent them. There was also a very solid chance that Lascelles was just good enough at hiding his feelings to avoid detection, even if he _had_ sent them. He struck Childermass as manipulative in the extreme. Anyone who’d risen to the position he had in the entertainment industry, and who had his attitudes and behaviors would likely have more than a few tricks up his sleeve. 

Also though, part of Childermass wanted to avoid Lascelles at all costs. He felt a strange sort of vulnerability at having come so completely undone by photos of what he had only _suspected_ to be pictures of his rival’s cock. It felt as if Lascelles had won something and Childermass had lost, had lost some award for restraint or aloofness in the way he’d let those photos pull him apart inside so easily. Even the startlingly strong orgasms brought on by the pictures hadn’t ameliorated the nagging feeling Childermass had that Lascelles had somehow engineered this situation as a way to unsettle and degrade Childermass. It was already doing a number on his head. The wondering if it had been Lascelles who’d sent the photos or not. The vacillation back and forth over the motives he might have had if he _did_ send them. Was it lust or vengeance? And why were the two so close to each other on Childermass’ emotional spectrum? 

He sided on a brief foray into the study that would allow him to perhaps assess Lascelles’ mood without appearing too obvious. He concocted an errand that he needed to talk to Norrell about, then sauntered into the study a careful forty five minutes after Lascelles arrived, as it would not do to come running the minute Lascelles settled in. 

He found the two men in a now familiar tableau. Norrell on one side of his desk, little round glasses in place on his nose, expounding to Lascelles about some aspect of the York Society, while Lascelles sat, legs primly crossed, absently leafing through some papers on Norrell’s desk and contradicting Norrell’s opinion in a strangely companionable sort of way. 

Childermass forced down a twinge of envious jealousy at how intimate a scene the two men made, sitting together, debating and discussing history. This had always been a role that Childermass alone played with Norrell, and now he was forced to share the spotlight of Gilbert Norrell’s attention with Lascelles of all people. Norrell was _his_ damn it. _His_ companion. _His_ chosen family. _His_ employer. Norrell was all of those things to him, and it was difficult for Childermass to see Lascelles in any other way than as someone who was muscling in on Childermass’ territory. 

Childermass walked up and waited patiently to be noticed, and Norrell, being blessedly predictable, blinked owlishly up at him the moment there was a pause in what Lascelles had been saying. “Yes Childermass? What is it?” he asked.

“You wanted me to have a look at the new used bookshop in Badger Hill today. Was there anything in particular I was supposed to be looking for?” he asked, shooting a sideways glance at Lascelles. The copper haired man studiously avoided his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed down at the papers on Norrell’s desk. Papers that likely held nothing of interest for Lascelles, who preferred talking to the written word (he certainly did enough of it in Norrell’s company). This was a promising sign. If he’d boldly glared at Childermass, that would be a mark in the column that meant he’d likely not been the sender of the photos. But avoiding looking at him at all was unusual enough that Childermass felt his heartbeat speed up.

“Oh thank you Childermass. Yes. Anything on the York Society or magio-historians in general is of course top of the list, but also, if you find anything by Byron that you know I don’t already have, or anything you think would be of interest. Would you ring me up before you make any purchases? Like usual?”

“Of course, sir,” Childermass nodded. “If you don’t hear from me, it’s because I didn’t find anything I think you’d like.” He half turned away, intending to wish both men a good day and leave, but then Lascelles spoke up.

“Shouldn't he ring you either way?” he said, addressing Norrell directly while completely ignoring Childermass. “What I mean to say is, does he know your taste so well that he’ll be able to make that decision on his own? No offense meant,” he said as an aside to Childermass, still not looking at him, but indicating him with a vague wave of his hand. “There are just some hidden gems that only an _academic_ would recognize..don’t you agree Gilbert?”

Childermass fought to keep the surprise and anger from showing on his face and clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t say anything, merely waited for Norrell to come to his defence, to explain to Lascelles that Childermass knew Norrell’s taste in books and the composition of his library _very well indeed_ and that there was no need for Childermass to check in before he headed home if there was nothing that would interest Norrell at the shop. 

Norrell however, after looking briefly uncomfortable, did not defend him. “That’s a fair point Henry,” he said, looking up at Childermass, blinking rapidly in the way he did when he was confused or worried. “Would you call me either way and let me know what you’ve found? Not because I don’t trust you...just out of curiosity...you understand.” 

Childermass had just enough self control to nod stiffly and mutter a pleasant enough sounding “of course sir,” before he stalked out of the study. He was glad for the immediate escape route, to hide the rage he felt from Lascelles’ eyes. Rage that crackled up inside him like a forest fire. Not that Lascelles had looked at him once during the entirety of this brief exchange. 

_That clever bastard_. He’d found a way to humiliate Childermass completely by playing on Norrell’s insecurities over imagined missed opportunities to acquire rare books for his collection. Undercutting Norrell’s trust in him was a particularly low move, and it widened the playing field for what was possible in the never ending rivalry between him and Lascelles. If Lascelles wanted to play dirty, then Childermass would play dirty. 

On his way out to the garage, he bent and stuck his hand in a spot of grease on the blacktop of the drive, then lovingly smeared it over the brake light of Lascelles’ glossy red roadster before washing his hand off in the service sink at the back of Norrell’s garage. 

This prank was unlikely to be noticed by Lascelles until a police officer (hopefully) pulled him over for having a dim/broken brake light sometime later that evening. Even if the police took no notice of Lascelles’ now filthy brake light, the man would find out about it somehow, and Childermass relished the thought of him becoming incensed over it at some point in the near future. It was also quite clearly Childermass who’d done it, and there was no way to prove this fact. Getting the grease off of the brake light would take some doing. Childermass smiled to himself at the thought of Laselles’ furiously scrubbing at it with a flannel, spreading the thick black gunk around, thinning it out, making it more and more difficult to remove. Lascelles would have no clue how to clean up such a stain. Childermass’ smile, and the warm feeling at Lascelles future anger accompanied him as he pulled out of the garage on Brewer and sped off in the direction of Badger Hill.

After perusing the second hand bookshop, and finding nothing that would interest Norrell, he still called. He was a man of his word, and purposefully _not_ calling risked making him seem petulant. 

Norrell answered and swiftly agreed with Childermass’ assessment that the collection of Jane Austen novels (no first editions) and battered copies of Twelfth Night (published in the early 1950s) were not of any interest to him. There were no books on the York Society, a fact that did not surprise Childermass, nor were there any on the esoteric subject of English magic in general, and so he headed back home. 

He was pleased to see Lascelles’ car still parked in the drive when he pulled up. He got a special sort of charge, knowing the grease stain was there when Lascelles hadn’t discovered it yet. He was past the point of being concerned over why this gave him a sexual charge...this feeling of anticipation, waiting for Lascelles to discover something that Childermass knew would anger him. 

Perhaps that was the feeling Lascelles got from sending Childermass pictures of his cock. Getting himself excited, worked up, ready to explode, and then sending evidence of his desire to Childermass in a neat little digital package, to be opened when Lascelles was not there to see the effect it would have. That way, Lascelles could live in that moment, imagining whatever he wanted to about Childermass’ reaction to the photos. 

Childermass wondered what reaction Lascelles was hoping for. If it was indeed he who had sent the photos, how could Lascelles seriously desire any other outcome more than Childermass, stroking himself to climax while looking at Lascelles cock? Surely that would be a better result than wincing and deleting the photos in surprised disgust… or worse, smug disgust? 

Childermass was no fool, even if Lascelles mobile was unlisted, all Childermass needed to do was to call the number back to try and gain more information on who’d sent the photos. There could be an answerphone message stating Lascelles’ name, and then the mystery would be solved. But something stopped him from calling. It was the same thing that stopped him from confronting Lascelles on the subject. At least not yet. It was because he loved living in the excitement of _not knowing_. 

He would be disappointed if it were not Lascelles sending the pictures, and truth be told, he’d probably be far less excited by them if he knew some randy stranger had sent them as a kinky ruse. And so part of him did not want the sender's identity confirmed for that reason alone. If he did not know, he was free to assume it was his red haired rival, and that… that made Childermass tingle with excitement. 

Entering the house again, he decided to stop back at the study. Looking at Lascelles’ smug face, knowing that Childermass’ hand, coated in engine grease had just smoothed it’s way across the slick surface of the man’s expensive vehicle… it would give him a little extra thrill. 

He stepped inside the study, opening the door without knocking and was pleased to see Lascelles look up automatically to see who had entered, before swiftly flicking his eyes away and going pink across the cheeks. _I know it's you, you pervert_ Childermass thought as he slowly walked over to Norrell’s desk. “Anything else I can do for you sir?” he asked, ignoring Lascelles as usual. 

“A coffee if you wouldn’t mind,” said Lascelles, with an impatient sniff, this time raising his dark eyes to fix them on Childermass’ face, a hint of a smile playing about his lips. 

“Childermass, would you mind asking Hannah to bring us up some coffees please?” Norrell responded distractedly. “I know it’s not your job, but I’d appreciate it,” 

_I could kiss him,_ Childermass thought of Norrell, happy that the bookish man had stated so clearly that fetching drinks was not in his job description in front of Lascelles. He could not have planned Norrell’s response better if it had been scripted. He grinned wickedly at the copper haired man and raised one eyebrow. “I’ll make an exception today, because Mr. Lascelles asked so nicely,” he replied, making his voice as sweet as honey and rejoicing privately when he saw Lascelles’ face go a deeper shade of pink, watched the bulge of his masseter muscle twitch as he clenched his jaw. “But in the future, you should make requests for refreshments directly to Hannah.” 

Norrell, absorbed in a slim volume splayed open on his desk in front of him, nodded absently “Yes, thank you Childermass, for going out of your way,” he mumbled. Childermass’ heart sang. He turned on his heel and left the library, heading down to inform Hannah that “the ginger dandy” and Mr. Norrell wanted coffees. Hannah well understood how much of a twat Lascelles was, and she gave Childermass a sassy wink and a nod before bustling off to set up a tray for the gentlemen upstairs. 

The rest of the day passed without incident. Childermass had a spring in his step as he went about his duties, thinking happily of Lascelles’ reaction when he found out about the grease on his brake light. He did wonder if perhaps the dick pics would stop when Lascelles’ discovered what Childermass had done, then chuckled to himself at the possibility that they’d become even more explicit. Henry Lascelles seemed to be deeply affected by the things Childermass did and said in their subtle battle. Childermass was _so close_ to finding proof that the man got a sexual charge from their combative relationship.

He was unsure what to do with that information once he had it. Trying to fuck Lascelles felt like burying one’s face in a patch of poison ivy. But if not a sexual relationship, what else? A constant, subtle battle for social supremacy until Norrell’s book was finished and Lascelles finally went back to London? That seemed draining and fruitless. Childermass supposed he could handle wanking to thoughts of Lascelles at night and slighting him by day for a while longer, but it was a situation that led to nothing useful or fulfilling. Why go through all the trouble of dealing with a man like Henry Lascelles if he couldn’t fuck him? And more confoundingly, why would Lascelles goad him so, and send him dirty pictures if some sort of kinky, angry fuck was not what he were aiming for either? 

Childermass was tired of thinking on the subject. It seemed that suddenly half the day had been taken up with worries and fantasies about a man he could barely stand speaking to under the best of circumstances. Perhaps his down mood of late had gotten the better of him. He should get out more. Meet someone new. Maybe pick up the guitar he hadn’t played in two years. Or start sketching again? He knew his burgeoning obsession with Henry Lascelles wasn’t good for him, but something about that horrible man made his insides twist in the most wicked way. Perhaps, for the time being...playing mind games with Lascelles was what he needed?


	4. Chapter 4

Lascelles did not come again for three more days, and there were no new texts in that time either. The correlation between Childermass’ prank with the brake light and the absence of texts proved beyond a doubt to Childermass that it was Lascelles doing the sending. 

Childermass briefly regretted letting his anger get the better of him, but he also knew himself. He’d never been good at being directly challenged by someone without rising to the occasion. He’d gotten into trouble in his youth for always talking back, even when it wasn’t in his best interest. It had taken years to quell this urge to spit in the face of authority, and Henry Lascelles’ snide contempt was a challenge he simply could not resist. 

Perhaps his temper had ruined his chances of getting more thrilling, pornographic content from Lascelles, but at this point, it was almost worth it to know that Childermass’ actions had  _ gotten _ to the man. 

If Lascelles was dedicated to being as dismissive and disrespectful to Childermass as possible, then really, there was no way for Childermass to ‘lose’ in this battle of wills. The worst that could happen was that Lascelles would leave in a huff and never come back, and, while Childermass enjoyed their sparring, this wasn’t any sort of tragedy. Childermass told himself that other attractive people would come along to make him forget that Henry Lascelles had ever existed. 

Despite such rational thoughts though, Childermass had to admit to himself that Lascelles was special. That he fulfilled a very specific and very urgent need that Childermass had inside for this sort of adversarial sparring, this dark, kinky sort of flirtation. Yes it was unhealthy and toxic, but dear God, it was bloody exciting as well. Sometimes, to a man like John Childermass, people’s every day lives seemed incomprehensibly dull. He’d grown up in a fractured household full of drug abuse and lies. He’d slept on the streets, turned tricks for cash, stolen from the wealthy and run from the police down back alleys. He had a different standard for what the word ‘excitement’ meant. And even though he was thankful for the stable home he now had under Mr. Norrell’s roof, he missed the thrill of the  _ wrong _ way.

Still, he supposed he had to acknowledge that worse things could happen than Henry fucking off back to London without saying goodbye. The man could decide that Childermass had gone too far with something that happened between them and have him reported to authorities, or try to irreparably damage his relationship with Norrell. Out of all of the possible negative outcomes, Lascelles working to drive a wedge between Childermass and Norrell was the most painful to contemplate. Lascelles had been the first person to disrupt Childermass and Norrell’s cozy life together, their confirmed bachelorhood and companionable acquaintance, and the thought that Lascelles could harm that connection somehow, made Childermass second guess the wisdom of continuing this back and forth duel. 

He and Norrell owed one another so much. Not only did the man’s employment almost completely support Childermass financially, but he had a comfortable, safe place to stay, access to all the books he could ever imagine reading, and the friendship of the other staff (fellow groundskeeper and errand runner, Davie as well as Hannah) and of Norrell himself. Norrell seemed to understand Childermass’ sometimes dark moods, and cared not a whit for his shady past. They spent many an hour lost in deep discussion on a wide range of topics, and Childermass could gently pull Norrell back from being a pedantic bore, or a fussy obsessive, just as Norrell’s unthinking bluntness and refusal to be overly considerate of anyone’s needs outside his own, kept Childermass from sinking to deeply into his minor depressive episodes. Norrell would listen to him, would respect his ideas, but he’d never coddle him or encourage self pity. He always expected the best from Childermass...and it was very difficult for Childermass to disappoint him. 

So yes, there were things Henry Lascelles could do that were worse than flouncing off in a strop. He could go a long way to ruining Childermass’ sense of belonging in the world. 

And yet, Childermass still desired Lascelles relentlessly. With no new pictures coming in on his mobile, he was reduced to looking over and over again at the two he already had. Each night before he went to sleep, and then again in the morning as well, when he woke up with a throbbing morning erection and Lascelles face on his mind, Childermass would masturbate to the pictures. Each day that Lascelles did not arrive at Norrell’s house put Childermass more and more on edge. 

On the third day, he could no longer contain his curiosity and worry, and so he gently broached the subject with Norrell. The two were going over a list of contacts Norrell wanted Childermass to reach out to that day, and after Childermass had made his notes, he casually remarked on Lascelles’ absence. 

“Where's your friend?” he asked, keeping his tone light, and keeping his eyes on his list of names and numbers on the paper in his hand. “He hasn’t been around much lately,”

“Who, Henry? No, I think he had some important meeting somewhere, in Paris maybe? Something about a new model for their latest issue. Said he’d be back soon.” 

Childermass took a breath. Now was as good a time as any. “You know, Mr. Norrell,” (for Childermass rarely ever called Norrell by his first name), “you didn’t have to tell him about my past. I know I didn’t specifically ask you to keep hush hush about it, but that’s my private business. Not for sharing.” Childermass knew he sounded too invested..too upset, but didn’t care. He was still harboring a bee sting of resentment over the betrayal of his confidence. 

Norrell however looked up at him, blue eyes full of confusion. “Tell him what? I didn’t tell Lascelles anything about you, or your past.”

“You didn’t?” Childermass’ mouth almost fell open in shock. “Nothing about me living on the streets? Me running scams? Nothing about any of that? You sure?”

“Yes Childermass, I’m certain,” Norrell was suddenly emphatic, realizing a bit belatedly that this was important to his employee and friend. He placed a hand on Childermass’ arm and squeezed, looking him in the eye. “That  _ is  _ none of my business...or Henry’s,” he said. “I don’t just go around, spilling the beans about people’s private lives,” he finished looking mildly affronted. Childermass was both touched and confused. 

In any case, while he was here, in this honest and open space with his employer, he thought it best to go the final mile and ask the next question that was now nagging at him. 

“Oh, well, Henry texted me to ask me something a few days ago. Did you give him my mobile number?”

“Why would I do that?” Norrell asked, looking even more confused. “Really Childermass, we’ve known each other for a long time. I’m a little surprised you’d suspect me of just giving out your personal information like that. And who knows with Henry. He’s a big shot over at that magazine of his. I’m sure he has ways of finding someone’s mobile number if he wants to.” Norrell scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles, his eyes already being pulled back to the book on his desk. “I hope this means the two of you will be getting on better if you’re texting one another. I can tell you’re not very fond of him.”

Childermass stared at Norell for a few seconds before he found the wherewithal to compose his face into its usual mask of aloof disinterest. “He’s an alright chap,” he said with a shrug. “Don’t worry about us getting along. You like working with him, that’s what’s important. Anything in particular you need right now?”

He swiftly changed the subject away from Henry’s personal qualities and back to his duties to distract Norrell and prayed that he hadn’t said too much. His head was reeling with the information that had just come into play. 

“Oh yes! Please let Hannah know that that Italian dish Mrs. Petry made last night was delightful. I’d love to have that again sometime soon, and did you email that man in Bath about that book on magio-historians like I asked?”

Childermass nodded, reassuring Norrell that he’d do what he was asked and left quickly.

This had been a very informative conversation. Not only had Norrell not betrayed Childermass’ confidence, a fact that eased the sore spot in his heart that had been nagging at him since that day, but he hadn’t given out Childermass’ number either. And this meant only one thing. 

It meant that Henry Lascelles had gone digging for information on Childermass.

Henry Lascelles had gone  _ out of his way _ to find out about Childermass’ background and his past and had looked up his number. And then...he’d sent pornographic texts to that number in a manner he’d assumed to be anonymous. 

These were not the acts of a man who simply disliked Childermass. These were the acts of a man who was  _ intensely interested in him _ . Childermass’ stomach was turning and his face had gone hot as he walked away from Norrell’s study. Now he knew. Now he finally had proof positive that Henry Lascelles wanted him back. He felt a flush of triumph thinking about Lascelles going out of his way to track down information on Childermass’ past, just so he could throw it in Childermass’ face at the right moment. He thought about Lascelles finding out Childermass’ cell number on his own. Childermass was not listed, but Norrell was right. Lascelles could easily find an alternative route to discovering his mobile number. The man had money and influence, and one only needed to be clever and have a passing knowledge of computers to find an unlisted mobile phone. 

Later that night, after the day’s work was done, when Childermass was alone in his room, he decided it was high time to send Lascelles a pic of his own. It was the next step after all wasn’t it? The tossing of the proverbial ball into Lascelles’ court…

Childermass lit a candle and turned out the lights. He removed his clothing and lay down on his bed above the covers. He closed his eyes and thought about Lascelles in a similar position, laying, pale and slender and naked on his own bed somewhere right now, stroking himself and thinking about Childermass. It didn’t take long for Childermass to achieve a rock hard erection. He played with himself, thinking of the trail of copper hair on Lascelles white stomach, his adam's apple moving in his long neck, until he felt the first warning tingles of an impending orgasm. He then stopped touching himself and took a series of shots of his cock from a few different angles. He made sure not to have any identifying objects or bodily features in the photos, and the dim lighting helped to keep the images from being easily identified. 

Not that it mattered. Lascelles knew the images were coming from Childermass’ mobile, and so he’d of course know that they were of Childermass’ prick. And yet, these were the rules of their little game. Pretend anonymity. False anonymity. A kinky little unspoken agreement that they’d keep things secret, that they’d not yet show their hand..either of them. 

He selected the one photo he thought was the hottest. One that displayed the full length of his cock, red and damp at the tip, laying stiffly against the dark fur on his belly, and before he could second guess himself, he sent it off to the unidentified number. 

He waited a full minute, so that (in his mind at least) he could be certain that the text had reached its destination, and then, thinking about Lascelles opening the text and seeing the picture, thinking about Lascelles’ eyes playing over the image of Childermass’ cock, the red haired man getting excited by the sight, he finished what he’d started and stroked himself to orgasm. It was a stunning climax, a toe curling, gasping, radiating wave of pleasure that burst through him and out. He shot a larger than average load in hot streaks across his chest and belly as he gasped into the candlelit dimness of his room. 

After coming down from the high of his climax, he had to admit there was something to be said about the excitement of sending pictures of his cock to someone, unannounced. He’d never do such a thing to someone he’d just met, an interest from one of his nights out, but he knew Lascelles had a different moral code than other people. He knew Lascelles thrived on dubious consent, on the heady mix anger and sex and vengeance that was playing out between them. 

He fell asleep that night feeling more satisfied and wrung out with spent pleasure than he had in the past week of almost feverish masturbation. Something about knowing that Lascelles had, for lack of a better phrase, Childermass’ cock in his possession… it had sent him to heights of excitement and his climax had been more deeply affecting, its aftermath more calming and tranquil than any sexual experience he recalled having in the past few years of one night stands.

The next day, Lascelles came back to the house and Childermass decided it was time to confront him. Not to accuse him of sending the pics, and not to make a pass at him. Just to tease at the edges of their game to see if anything shook loose. 


	5. Chapter 5

Henry Lascelles had not planned on spending quite so much time in York. His agreeing to travel north to meet with Norrell had only been done on a lark in the first place. 

Henry, despite the fact that his job was a frantically busy one, approving layouts, meeting to discuss concepts, flying to locations, auditioning talent for new photoshoots, had found himself feeling burnt out and uninspired lately. The assistant creative director, Lucy had urged him to take some time off. Just part time, she reassured him. He could still join meetings via mobile or Zoom, could still write and receive emails. But he really needed to get out of London and go somewhere new and just get away from his office for a while. She reminded him that he had not gone on holiday for seven years, and that he had been yelling at the junior creatives more than usual for a while now. 

Henry had relented, and then, as if out of the blue, he’d received an email from “The Office of Gilbert Norrell” telling him that apparently Norrell (an author of books on very obscure historical subjects) was writing a new book about a society of theoretical magicians that his ancestor and Henry’s ancestor had worked together to dissolve, back in the early 19th century. His curiosity had been piqued, and despite that fact that York was a bit far to travel to meet with some dodgy old man about a book, Henry had made the trip. 

He’d been surprisingly drawn in by the subject matter. Apparently, there had been this fascination, this craze of sorts among the upper classes surrounding the possibility of doing magic back in the early to mid 19th century. It was one of those things that people with limited knowledge of science and with too heavy a dose of restrictive religion in their lives became obsessed with. Like alchemy or witchcraft or the search for an elixir to heal all ills. A small society of “theoretical magicians” had sprung up in York, calling themselves (predictably) “The York Society of Magicians.” They were a group of perhaps twelve to fifteen men, ranging in age from their late thirties to their late seventies who had become obsessed with the study of English Magic. Ironically, they were some of the few people of the time involved in the subject who believed that magic, in a practical sense, could _not_ be achieved. 

Norrell’s ancestor (also named Gilbert Norrell if you can believe that), was of the opinion that he _could_ in fact do actual, practical magic, and had become obsessed with gathering up any and all books on the subject and in silencing anyone else who wished to purposefully discuss or attempt to practice it. He’d grown quite paranoid and obsessive on the subject and had grabbed up all the books he could find. The last clutch of books on the subject of English magic, only a few battered volumes, had been in the possession of the York Society. Norrell’s ancestor had become convinced that these stodgy, dull old men were hell bent on thwarting his schemes of becoming a practical magician by hiding away these last few volumes from him and by plotting in secret to become magicians themselves. 

He’d enlisted Lascelles' ancestor (also named Henry. It was a family name and there were at least four other Henrys -- first or middle name, that Lascelles could come up with off the top of his head in his recent family tree), to help him shut down the society and publish propaganda about them in a weekly newsletter. The current Mr. Norrell had admitted that the whole thing was ludicrous, but also that he was fascinated by these sorts of historical farces, and loved digging deep to find new details about how these things played out, and to paint a picture of the event for others so that they could enjoy the farce as well. He’d decided to turn his findings into a new book, and Lascelles had for some reason immediately been sucked in.

Maybe it was how oblivious the present Gilbert Norrell was to the constantly shifting tides of high fashion, his complete and total disinterest and lack of understanding of the things that ruled Henry’s life, that made him such an interesting companion. Gilbert Norrell did not fawn over Henry Lascelles. He did not try to manipulate him, compete with him or flatter him. He was a creature of such unassuming charm and horrible taste in clothing that Henry felt completely comfortable around Gilbert Norrell in a way he hadn’t around anyone in London’s social circles. 

He’d decided to stay in the area for a few days. This had quickly turned into a few weeks as he became more and more involved in Norrell’s writing process. 

He would of course be lying if he said that Norrell and his book were the only thing keeping him in York. On the very first day he stepped into Norrell’s house and laid eyes on John Childermass, he’d had a sudden strong urge to stick around. 

It was unusual for Henry Lascelles to become so intensely attracted to a man who was so obviously heterosexual. He normally preferred his partners to be slight, feminine, on the young side. Pretty boys who liked kinky sex. Boys who didn’t talk too much and who adored him as a quasi-celebrity, and who, most importantly, knew their place in his life as a sex partner and nothing more. That way, there weren’t as many strings attached. 

Henry Lascelles loathed the never ending responsibilities and suffocating needs of “long term relationships.” He had never been one for sentiment, and preferred loose and light connections for sex. If he wanted companionship, he would go out with his small, select group of friends, all of whom held high powered jobs in the fashion or television industries, (or the stock market or entrepreneurship of some kind) and who enjoyed drinking in posh clubs and dining in restaurants without prices on the menu. His friends didn’t ever ask how he was feeling (not in any sort of sincere way), and they didn’t care about his inner turmoil, and that’s how Henry Lascelles liked things to be. 

He'd never in his life wanted someone to hold hands with and stroll down a shady lane. The thought of caring about an anniversary enough to celebrate it made him itch with irritation, and the thought of meeting his partner’s parents made him physically ill. Sentiment was for the weak. Love was a thing people made sappy films about. It didn’t earn a person any money. It didn’t increase their power in society or make them more attractive. It was just useless, sugar coated dependency. 

But lust… well, lust was something Henry understood quite well. He felt it instantly upon seeing John Childermass saunter his way into Norrell’s study on that first, fateful day. 

The frustrating thing about his desire for Childermass was not just that he was certain the man was straight. It was also that the man was _ugly_. He had long, lank hair that was perpetually tangled, whereas Henry preferred men who spent far too much money on trips to the salon. Childermass’ face was set in a perpetual blank half-frown. His nose was too narrow and too hawkish, his face a pale oval, half hidden by that ridiculously messy hair. He was of an average build and dressed in shabby clothing and had an insufferable, insolent attitude about everything that he did and said. Henry was accustomed to sleeping with creamy skinned boys in their early 20s with flawless taste in fashion and sculpted abdominal muscles. Childermass by contrast looked like a hired hand on a country farm. He smelled of sweat and had dirt under his nails and he was so unrelentingly, obnoxiously masculine that he made Henry feel like a simpering fop by comparison. And to top it all off, he was Henry’s own age. In his early to mid forties. He had strands of silver in his hair and a small patch of white in the semi-constant scruff on his chin. 

And yet… and yet… Henry found that he was almost immediately consumed with the desire to fuck this shabby, low class, unstylish middle aged man. And that fact drove him mad, because it told him something about himself that he did not like to believe. 

Henry Lascelles was a man of _standards_. He had incredibly high standards in clothing and home decor, in restaurants and clubs, and in his lovers. He dated men who graced the covers of magazines. Men who were so pretty, that sometimes, when the lighting was right, he found he had to fuck them from behind because they reminded him too much of women. But for some reason, John Childermass, with his sullen attitude and his filthy hands had blown past all of Henry’s standards relating to good taste, and now, for some horribly embarrassing reason, Henry wanted nothing more than to sink down on the man’s cock and ride him. 

He was not surprised to discover that he loathed Childermass’ personality. He was often turned on sexually by people he didn’t like, to the point where he almost preferred it. It was just that usually, they were also incredibly good looking people with money and social influence. Not a filthy low class errand boy with a Yorkshire accent so thick he could cut it with a knife. 

It seemed that Childermass returned his feelings of anger and resentment, or that’s what Henry suspected anyway. The man was so damnably hard to read. But, when his almost ever present veil of aloofness shifted to the side for a few seconds, Henry could see a spark of anger, a smug flash of resentment play its way across Childermass’ face, and this made him unaccountably happy. 

He soon (regrettably) found himself securely tied to Norrell’s house, by the fascinating subject of his own ancestor’s bizarre obsession with the York Society, along with his own highly humiliating and swiftly growing obsession with John Bloody Childermass. 

Why did Henry want so badly to shag this caveman in a t-shirt? Childermass’ body was unrelentingly average. His face was narrow, hawklike, pale… his hair, long and always inches away from being a tangled mess was worn in a haphazard ponytail at the nape of his neck. There was nothing about him that usually made Henry Lascelles sit up and take notice. He didn’t have plump lips or large eyes or a washboard stomach. His eyes were dark, glowering and inscrutable. His mouth, though not thin, was always stuck in a perpetual, blank line that gave away little about his inner feelings. 

Why oh why then was Henry fantasizing repeatedly about pressing his lips to that mouth, bruising that mouth with a rough kiss? Why was he picturing that ragged hair falling down and tickling his face as Childermass worked into him from above? He wondered far too many times each day what Childermass would sound like when he came, what sorts of noises he’d make were Henry to suck him off. 

The fact that Childermass likely didn’t even fancy men was of little consequence. Henry prided himself on being the kind of man who could convince straight (or _curious)_ men to let him blow them. He’d made a bit of a habit of it at uni, where there were just not enough queer men around to satisfy his high libedo. He’d sucked off half of the football team and won himself a reputation for being open and available if anyone wanted to do a little _experimenting_. 

He did not know without a shadow of a doubt that Childermass was straight. But all the signs were there. His dirty nails. His skill at auto mechanics. The fact that he seemed not at all to care about the state of his appearance. It was safer to assume that a swaggering, rough voiced, stone faced maintenance man was straight than to assume otherwise. And besides, Childermass loathed him. So the chances of getting him into bed were next to nil.

Unless... Henry could do some digging. Find out more about this mysterious person who Gilbert Norrell had practically built his life around. Unless he could unearth some interesting things about John Childermass. He was unsure what such knowledge could be used for, but at the very least, it would give him the upper hand. And so he went digging. He did google searches, which turned up very little, then he reached out to a colleague, a private investigator of sorts who had helped Henry take out some opposition in the past. The man could find out anything about anyone for a modest price and Henry asked him to compile all the information he could about Childermass.

The results were interesting, but mostly not surprising. That the man had lived on the streets. That he had had troubles with drugs and alcohol and had checked himself into a clinic. Henry saw birth records and information on Childermass’ mother, a single parent with a very shady past, multiple arrests for minor panhandling and theft charges. Childermass apparently came from filth.

The thing that he found the most surprising, and the thing that made his heart pound and his face go hot and his breath come short however, was the fact that John Childermass had dabbled a bit in prostitution. Henry’s investigator had tracked down a few people who’d known Childermass, twenty plus years ago, when he’d lived on the street and discovered that the man used to suck blokes off for money. Now, this did not mean that he wasn’t straight. Some straight men who got hard up for money for drugs went that route, figuring that a cock in the mouth was worth getting their fix for the day. But the pure fact that Childermass had done it, that he’d sucked off random men...it made Henry Lascelles burn with lust. 

Now he had that very startling and pleasant mental image to contend with while watching Childermass saunter about Norrell’s house during the day. Now, when he looked at that grim line of a mouth, he could picture it wrapped around some stranger’s prick in the back seat of a car. By the end of a week, Henry Lascelles was a mess with wanting Childermass. He fell prey to constant fantasies of the most lurid and explicit sort as he glared at Childermass’ back walking down a hallway, or pretended not to notice the man when he entered the study to talk to Norrell. 

It was torture. Pure torture. But Henry kept it all a secret. He kept his face trained in an expression of mild disdain for Childermass whenever they interacted. This became more difficult as the other man picked up on his obvious dislike and began to return Henry’s snark and disrespect with disrespectful acts of his own. Every time Childermass said something rude or dismissive to Henry. Every time he refused to acknowledge Henry as the better, more intelligent, more powerful person, Childermass’ insolence caused those sexual fantasies to increase in heat and frequency. 

By the time they had their little altercation in the hallway outside Norrell’s study, Henry had been fighting an urge to push Childermass up against the nearest flat surface and crash their mouths together, to sink to his knees, rip Childermass’ trousers open and impale his mouth on the man’s cock. He’d channelled all that pent up sexual desire into a harsh denunciation of Childermass’ character. Although he had shown his hand in being so knowledgeable about Childermass’ past, (a rash and dangerous move) it was almost worth it to see the pale spectre of rage flit across the other man’s face. 

That evening, while he stroked himself to thoughts of Childermass’ dark eyes and filthy hands roaming over his pale skin, Henry fantasized about exposing himself to Childermass. Of sitting in the study and locking eyes with Norrell’s ragged, insolent assistant and simply pulling his cock out and showing it to Childermass. In his fantasy, Childermass’ eyes, so lazy and dark, would slide down to Henry’s stiff prick and he would lick his lips. He would then crawl on hands and knees over to where Henry was sitting and beg to be allowed to suck Henry off. 

In a startling revelation, Henry realized, mid stroke, that his fantasy could, in some small way come true that very night. He had Childermass’ mobile number. He could take a picture and send it… 

It was a thing Henry enjoyed in sexual relationships, the exchange of dirty pictures. Especially when he was at work in his office. He’d always request that whatever pretty young thing he was currently fucking send him photos of thier cock during the day, so that he could be suprised by it during meetings. And he would always send one back, stroking himself to an erection in his office and snapping a few choice shots, with the door slightly ajar. The excitement of someone walking in and catching him added to the pleasure of showing off for his latest conquest. 

And here he was, stiff cock in his hand, thoughts of Childermass swimming in his head and his mobile phone close by. He’d use his personal mobile, which he kept unlisted and anonymous for the purposes of giving out to men he picked up in clubs. 

He made sure to turn down the lights in his rented flat’s bedroom in order to dull the colour of his body hair (a sure giveaway as it was a bright, flaming orange), and took a few shots of his erect cock. He chose a simple one to send, just his hand, lifting and displaying his stiff penis for the camera, and without a moment’s hesitation that would allow him to second guess himself, he sent it to Childermass’ number. 

Nothing happened. Henry had half expected a text back, demanding to know who this was who’d sent him the picture, but no text came. Of course he didn’t get a response. Upon a moment’s reflection, he realized that this was not Childermass’ style. The man was inscrutable and sullen. He would not give anyone the satisfaction of knowing how a random, unsolicited picture of another man’s hard cock affected him. 

Oh, but Henry Lascelles could _imagine_ how the picture affected John Childermass. He was suddenly flooded with a wide array of mental images surrounding exactly how Childermass would react to looking at Henry’s cock. In his mind, Childermass became immediately sexually excited and could not help but bring himself off while looking at Henry’s dirty picture. These thoughts had Henry crying out in the throes of an astoundingly strong orgasm only a few minutes later, as he spilled and gasped thinking about Childermass doing the same thing.

The next evening, he’d sent a new pic to Childermass’ mobile. This one more explicit, more urgent than the last. He’d gotten himself close to the brink of orgasm before taking the picture and had barely needed to pump his fist on his cock half a dozen times to reach his climax once it had been sent. 

Regrettably, Henry needed to make a trip to France for work the next day, and so he would not be able to see Childermass, to gauge any reaction the man might have had to his photo for another few days. The trip had dragged by as Henry interviewed a series of vapid models, argued over the location options of their next shoot and ended up sacking an assistant who’d designed a horrid layout that Henry had been too distracted to catch before it had made its way into last month's issue. 

It wasn’t until he landed at Heathrow and approached his car in the car park that he saw the filthy black grease stain on the brake light. There was a mix of emotions called up by this nasty prank. Firstly, he was briefly incensed that Childermass (for it was clearly Childermass who’d done it… grease did not simply jump up off the road and grind itself into the plastic furrows of his brake light casing), had done such a disrespectful thing. But, then, he recognized the act of vandalism for what it was. _Payback_ . For Lascelles’ little stunt with Norrell in the study on his last day at the house. Childermass was telling him something, and that something was _push me, and I’ll push back._

The smudge was of no real consequence. He drove the car to a professional detailer’s place and had it cleaned. The bill would be a costly one to a man like Childermass. Barely a drop in the bucket to a wealthy man such as Lascelles. Yet Lascelles planned on making him pay for it anyway. 

Despite the prank with the brake light, or perhaps maybe because of it, Lascelles was burning up with the desire to see Childermass again, to spar with him some more, to watch those dark eyes flash behind that fall of tangled hair. But, rather than rush back to York like some besotted school boy, he took his time, spent most of a day back in the office, to make sure that all hell hadn’t broken loose while he was away. 

On the third evening of his absence from York, he received the text. 

A picture was attached and it was of Childermass’ cock. Thick and red and stiff and lying flat against his hairy lower stomach, nestled there like an offering. Childermass had offered up his cock to Henry, like a gift. 

Henry was glad he was in his flat alone when he’d opened the photo, because he let out an indecent noise at seeing his rival’s cock. And then of course, he had no choice but to make himself come. Standing there in the kitchen, gripping the sink, the photo open on the counter so that he could look at it while he stroked himself, tapping at it periodically so the screen did not go dark. His trousers and pants pooling around his ankles. It took him next to no time to reach his peak and fall over it into a startlingly strong climax. He hadn’t even bothered to grab a tissue to catch his semen and shot it all down the side of the cabinets under his sink. His knees had gone weak and buckled as he came, and he could not help but yell out his pleasure, neighbors be damned. 

Childermass wanted him back. There was no other way to interpret the photo of his cock. Childermass wanted him back...and now the only question was what to do about it?


	6. Chapter 6

On the fourth day, Lascelles was back in Norrell’s study. He’d brought Norrell a gift of some posh chocolates and a book of French poetry, which shows how little he knew Gilbert Norrell. Childermass was pleased, when he entered the study an hour or so after Lascelles had arrived, to see the gifts sitting on a side table far from Norrell’s desk, where Norrell had likely left them after perusing them for roughly five seconds. He could just see Norrell saying “Oh, thank you Henry,” in a distracted fashion and then forgetting all about the frilly things and turning back to the subject of the York Society once more. 

The thing Henry Lascelles clearly did not yet understand about Gilbert norrell, was that in order to buy Norrell a book he liked, you had to know him for over a decade. Childermass had known him for almost two at this point, and he knew the extent of Norrell’s interest in French poetry (not very extensive) and the volumes of rare first editions of such poetry that he already owned, just to own them (quite extensive) meant that Lascelles gift would have zero emotional impact. Also, Norrell was not fond of chocolate. It was far too sweet for his tastes. If Lascelles had really wanted to impress him, he’d have picked out a rare wheel of cheese. But Childermass was not about to give Lascelles any gift giving hints where his eccentric employer was concerned. It was far more fun to watch the man’s attempts to socially woo Norrell fall flat. 

Lascelles either failed to notice the lukewarm reception to his gifts, or had gotten over it, because the two were standing in front of Norrell’s desk with their heads together over a book and their backs turned to the door. Lascelles had heard Childermass enter, he was certain of it, but the man continued talking to Norrell and ignored Childermass, making it so that Norrell had to be the one to interrupt their conversation and turn to address him.

“Ah good afternoon Childermass!” Norrell chirped, turning his bespeckled face in Childermass’ direction. “As you can see, our friend Mr. Lascelles is back from his business trip.”

“I noticed,” Childermass said, with a one sided smirk and a nod in Lascelles’ direction. The other man was wearing all black today. Black jeans and a sleek black jumper that zipped up the front and outlined his waist and chest in a way that Childermass found particularly distracting. As was his usual fashion, Lascelles had unzipped the top of the jumper a bit to display a segment of his pale neck, and Childermass fought to keep his eyes from jumping to that tempting patch of white skin. Lascelles turned to him, and Childermass was pleased to see the other man’s eyes flick swiftly down and up along the length of Childermass’ body before he could stop himself. 

“Welcome back Mr. Lascelles,” he said with only the barest mocking hint to his tone. “Did you bring me anything from Paris?”

Lascelles, to his credit, kept his sneer to a minimum as he gave Childermass a decidedly dead eyed smile in return. “Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Childermass. I forgot. Next time I shall bring you a new bonnet with ribbons and bows in the latest Parisian fashion.” 

Childermass chuckled despite himself. Witty repartee was apparently on the menu this afternoon. “That would be lovely Mr. Lascelles. I’m sure you’re familiar with all the best milliners.”

Lascelles’ smile warmed by a few degrees before he apparently decided play time was over. “I believe Norrell and I were in the middle of something…” he left the end of his sentence hanging in the air as an invitation for Childermass to say his peace and leave. 

“Mr. Norrell, “ Childermass turned smoothly to address his employer, ignoring Lascelles’ rudeness. “I need to make a quick trip into town, and wondered if you needed anything.” 

Norrell smiled, nodding swiftly. “Yes, please fetch the post as well as today’s Press if you would.”

Childermass nodded, turning to leave, when Lascelles spoke up again. “Come to think of it Mr. Childermass, if you wouldn’t mind, I need to fetch something from my car. I’ll walk out with you.”

Childermass felt his temperature spike and his mouth go suddenly dry at this very unforeseen turn of events, but he held onto his calm outer veneer by his fingernails and nodded mutely in assent. What could Lascelles want? To mock him? To deride him? A small part of Childermass hoped he wanted to proposition him. To grab him and pull him into a broom closet and sink to his knees in front of Childermass...to..to… he mentally banished such thoughts as they were not helpful or realistic and walked calmly to the door of the study and out, with Lascelles close behind him. 

The man frustratingly did not speak until they were out of the house and walking down the drive toward Lascelles’ car. At which point he grabbed hold of Childermass’ arm and swung him around to face him. At the same time, he held up a folded white sheet of paper and shook it in front of Childermass’ face. “This is a bill for the damage you did to my car, you bastard. I had to have it professionally cleaned, and now you’re going to reimburse me.” He said in a haughty tone that sounded as if he expected no argument. He’d halted their progression down the drive with the hand on Childermass’ upper arm, and now they both stood still, very close, eye to eye. Childermass swallowed hard. 

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand what it is you’re telling me,” Childermass said, stalling for time. He hadn’t known Lascelles would so abruptly and so directly confront him on his prank with the engine grease. He wouldn’t lie and said he hadn’t done it, but he also wouldn’t apologise. 

“Don’t play dumb with me you filthy ingrate,” Lascelles said through gritted teeth, his hand on Childermass’ arm tightening, his eyes starting to glow with a triumphant sort of anger. “I know it was you. Thought you’d give me some payback for informing your boss that you’re a lazy, indolent layabout did you? Well, now you’re going to pay for it.”

Childermass wrenched his arm out of Lascelles grasp, belatedly regretting the fact that he’d let his anger at the man cause him to do something so rash as to dirty Lascelles’ prize roadster. Now, he couldn’t deny it, but also, his pride would not let him just fold and pay for the damage. He decided instead to take a different route. 

“I wondered why you stopped sending me your artistic little pictures,” he said, low and soft, his eyes roaming slowly down to Lascelles’ rage-tightened mouth. He was just in time to watch it drop open in surprise. “Don’t try to deny it was you,” Childermass growled. “Only a pervert with too much time on his hands like you would come up with such a mixed up way of getting your kicks.”

He was distantly pleased when a look of guilt and surprise stole its way across Lascelles’ flushed features. The man’s mouth worked, opening and closing as he tried to formulate a sentence, though no words came. 

“That’s right. I know it was you,” Childermass continued, leaning in closer to Lascelles and dropping his voice even lower. “Are you disappointed that I liked them?”

“You..you…” Lascelles managed to stammer out, his eyes wide, his face now bright pink. Childermass loved the sight of his obvious surprise and embarrassment, and probably more than a little fury at being caught playing his little game. Lascelles had probably had no idea that Childermass would or could be this direct on the subject.

“Did you like my little thank you gift last night?” Childermass’s voice had dropped at this point to almost a whisper. He had leaned in so close to Lascelles that their bodies were just beginning to touch down the length of them both, clothing beginning to buckle and press against flesh as they drew closer, and he could feel Lascelles’ hot breath against his mouth. 

_Jesus Christ am I going to kiss him?_ Childermass’ eyes were now locked onto Henry Lascelles’ softly gaping mouth. They were in public, in the middle of Norrell’s drive, but no one was there, and at this time of day, no one was likely to be. Nor was anyone walking or driving by likely to see them, as the copse of trees that lined Norrell’s property provided a thick, green canopy to shield them from the street.

Childermass knew the comings and goings of Norrell’s household very well. He knew, for instance that at this moment, Hannah was organizing things for lunch, that Davey had gone to the grocer’s ten minutes ago and would not be back for another hour, and that Norrell himself was ensconced in his library, absorbed in a book. The man wouldn’t leave the house unless it were on fire, and even then, reluctantly. All of these calculations flitted swiftly through Childermass’ head in the space of two seconds as his gaze flicked from Lascelles’ lips to his eyes and back.

Lascelles’ face started screwing itself up into an expression of indignation. “How dare you-” he began, but Childermass decided it was high time to shut him up and so he closed the distance between them and crushed their mouths together. 

Childermass was used to a slow ramp up where kissing people was concerned. It almost always started with a soft press of lips, moving to some light exploration of tongues and then things would eventually get heated and sloppy as he grew to know his partner’s kissing style, their pace, their boundaries. 

All of that flew out the window when he kissed Henry Lascelles. For a split second, he was afraid he’d gravely misread the man, that he’d be pushed away, cursed at, slapped. But instead, Lascelles kissed back immediately, urgently, with an enthusiasm that bordered on violence. Lascelles lips had already been parted and he let Childermass’ tongue swiftly snake its way into his mouth, and then all was a mad, hot rush of lips and teeth and Childermass was gripping Lascelles by the face and eating at his mouth. Lascelles was whining high in the back of his throat and then pressing his body against Childermass with a sort of starving desperation that drove a low moan from Childermass’ chest. Before he even realized what he’d done, Childermass had walked Lascelles backward two paces and pressed him up against the door of his car and was thrusting against him, winding his fingers in Lascelles’ hair, sucking on the man’s tongue and lips. Lascelles made a sharp noise when Childermass pressed their pelvises together and rolled his hips, and Childermass echoed him with another low groan as the kiss continued. 

Lascelles smelled incredibly good. Like posh aftershave and a light, floral shampoo, and he tasted of black tea. His hair was like silk against Childermass’ fingers, just like he’d dreamed it would be in fantasies of getting his hands into it. The feeling of the man’s long, slender body, so tightly pressed against him, and the slick, rough movement of their mouths together had him almost mad with lust. Lascelles was responding to every move he made with these desperate noises that only drove Childermass further out of his mind with desire. Within seconds, they were grinding against each other, the friction between them had Childermass rock hard and tingling, and he could feel an answering stiffness in Lascelles’ trousers. 

He had to stop. He had to pull away. They were outside, in Norrell’s drive, not in a bedroom, behind a locked door. There was only so far they could go, but the responsiveness of Lascelles’ body, the sharp little sobbing noises he made whenever Childermass rutted against him… it was enough to make Childermass lose his good senses. He wanted to take Henry Lascelles then and there, to spin him around, rip down his trousers and fuck him, rough and spit slicked, against his own pretentious stupid fucking car. 

It was that, or keep moving against each other until one or both of them reached orgasm, which, based on the pangs of sharp lust pulling at Childermass from his groin, did not seem entirely unlikely. 

With a herculean effort, he pulled away from Lascelles, first breaking their kiss, then, panting for breath, he put his hands on the man’s shoulders and pushed himself off and away from the writhing heat of Lascelles’ body and took a step back. “We… we can’t. Not out here. Not in the open like this,” he said, his voice a gravely, breathless rasp as he struggled to regain his composure. 

“Then let's go to your room,” Lascelles responded, his cheeks flaring with a deep blush, his eyes gone glassy and black. 

After a very brief yet very fierce internal struggle, Childermass shook his head. ”Not now. I’m still meant to be at work.” He stepped further away and tugged his shirt back into place where it had rucked up, exposing his belly, and cleared his throat. “Come to my room later this evening.”

Lascelles face closed up and his eyes went from lust blown to cold and angry in a split second. “I am not in the habit of _waiting around_ to get fucked,” he spat out, standing up straight and pulling his own disarrayed clothing back into a semblance of neatness. “If you’d rather run errands, then let’s just leave it.” 

Childermass should not have been so bitterly disappointed at his reaction. He should have known better than to suggest that Lascelles inconvenience himself in any way. The man was a spoiled prince, and likely a sociopath to boot. Why he was, on top of all that, so bloody appealing to Childermass was beyond him. _Maybe he’s appealing to you because he reminds you of the bad times, the bad people you came from, suggesting_ a small, knowing voice in the back of his head, but he pushed it down and ignored it. 

“Fine, suit yourself,” he said, turning to walk away, but Lascelles again grabbed his arm, detaining him.

“What about the damage you did to my car?” he hissed, shoving the folded bill back into Childermass’ face. “If you can’t take any time out of your busy schedule to fuck me, then the least you can do is pay for your childish little prank.”

Childermass grabbed the receipt and unfolded it. He glanced at the number at the bottom, swore internally at how expensive the cleaning had been, and reached in his back pocket for his wallet. He took out a fistful of notes (probably twice what he owed) and threw them at Lascelles. They broke against his chest and fluttered to the blacktop of Norrell’s drive, and Childermass simultaneously wrenched his arm away from Lascelles and stalked off toward the garage. He would have liked to turn and watch Lascelles having to bend over to retrieve the money, but he’d had just about enough of that man for one afternoon. 

Luckily, Lascelles did not hurl any insults after him. Childermass hopped on Brewer and took off toward the road, gunning the engine in his urgency to put some distance between himself and the maddening man with the red hair and angry eyes. He knew his act of getting vengeance on Lascelles by messing about with his car had been a bad move to make. It had forced him back into the role of street tough. Hoodlum. Gutter trash. Doing things out of anger and resentment, rather than staying calm and analyzing the situation with logic. But that was the effect Henry Lascelles had on him. Like fire and petrol. There were always flames where that man was concerned. 

  
_Not anymore,_ he told himself. _From now on I’ll maintain the high ground._ He knew that such a promise to himself would be hard to keep. If only for the simple reason that Lascelles would not be taking the high ground at all. The man likely didn’t know what those words even meant. He was a vicious, spoiled, demanding brat in a full grown man’s body. Unfortunately, it was a body that Childermass found relentlessly appealing. And now he’d had a literal taste of what sex with Lascelles might feel like, and he just knew that those memories, of the man’s lips against his own, the man’s hot, pliant body moving against him would haunt Childermass for a long time to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: soft Lascelles

Having run his errands, Childermass quickly dropped off Norrell’s mail and the copy of the newspaper he’d requested outside his door without entering. He did this sometimes when he was pressed for time, and Norrell had a small table in the hallway for just such a purpose. Childermass didn’t want to see Lascelles’ face again any time soon, and so he avoided the study for the rest of the day as he went about his duties. 

He was alone in his room at the end of the day when his phone chimed and he saw that Lascelles had sent a new text. This time, he’d sent a video clip. Childermass felt his body reacting before he’d even clicked on the play button to open the video. In it, he could see what was clearly Lascelles, lying naked on his bed, all pretense of low lighting and attempts at anonymity abandoned. The video was taken from Lascelles’ chest down, with a patch of his copper chest hair in the immediate foreground and further down, his hand, pumping away at his stiff cock, which was pointed directly into the camera. 

Childermass let out a low moan as his eyes played over the moving images on his mobile’s screen. Within seconds, Lascelles hand on his cock increased its pace, and Childermass could hear a very distinct, soft gasp from just off camera as Lascelles stomach flexed and he shot his load. Lascelles had wisely moved his mobile further away from the head of his prick as he reached orgasm, and so Childermass had a slightly birdseye view of the final act, of Lascelles shooting long ropes of white across his belly and up onto his chest. Lascelles let out another soft gasp and a series of sharp, rhythmic cries as he continued ejaculating for a few, thrilling seconds. Eventually his hand slowed and stopped, and after a shaky moment with the camera, the clip ended. 

Childermass was frozen to the spot. He pressed play again and watched the video a second time, and then a third. He was so hard at this point that it bordered on painful. He couldn’t stop his trembling fingers from replying to the text and tapping out the rash and highly inadvisable words:

**_Come over_ **

He hit send then waited, heart pounding and body throbbing for Lascelles inevitable rejection and probable insult. Or perhaps, after having had an orgasm, Lascelles interest in sex (and therefore his desire to see Childermass) had waned?

He was surprised to hear the ping of a return text in less than a minute's time. This time there was no image attached, and Childermass felt his heart speed up at the thought of how Henry Lascelles might have decided to reply. 

For a moment, he stared down at the numbers and letters that appeared on his mobile’s screen without comprehension. It was an address. Henry's address no doubt, in the rented flat where he was staying nearby. Childermass recognized the street, and it was only about a ten minute drive from Norrell’s house. His heart sped up to a rabbit’s pace and his mouth went dry. Could he...simply  _ go over _ to Lascelles place...for sex? At least he assumed it was for sex. Lascelles was unlikely to want to play cards or watch telly. There would be no candlelit dinner. Childermass was more than fine with that, but a small part of him wondered if Lascelles was playing some sort of game. That he’d arrive only to find the door locked, or worse, that Lascelles would let him in and then berate him and send him home. 

Why did this have to be so difficult? Why was taking this man at his word so very impossible to do? He knew Lascelles had some very thick walls up, and he could guess where some of them came from. Growing up queer in a wealthy, traditional family. Possibly being bullied in school. Having few friends. Learning that obtaining more power and more money made people respect you and that sex could be used as a weapon to widen the sphere of your own personal influence. He had part of Lascelles’ power trip and obvious insecurity figured out, but not all of it. 

Either way, an invitation had been extended, and Childermass knew that if he ignored it, he would further damage any chances he had at finally getting Lascelles into bed. And this was a thing he wanted very badly indeed. He was on fire with lust for this difficult, dangerous man, and if he swam in the waters of this toxic foreplay game for much longer, he feared he’d start making rash decisions. Like possibly grabbing Lascelles, pulling him into one of Norrell’s vacant rooms and slapping some sense into him. 

He was showered and dressed within five minutes and after pocketing a pair of condoms and grabbing his wallet, he was on Brewer before he had a chance to think twice. Before he could think about how wise it was to run off to a rival’s house in the middle of the night with a raging erection taking up far too much real estate in his trousers. 

The ride over was spent battling an incessant flutter in his stomach and semi-constant thoughts of what he had just witnessed in Lascelles’ video. He arrived at the location, a posh looking apartment building on a tree lined street, and strode up to the door, stomach in knots. Lascelles had apparently rented the top floor, the penthouse, of course. Childermass rang the buzzer and waited. Only a few seconds later, there was the loud blare of the door buzzing open and he entered. There was a lift and he rode it to the top floor, feeling as if he were walking into a lion’s den, but also as if he were somehow on the way to some luscious, high end brothel of some sort. This mixed feeling, that of mild dread and sexual anticipation did nothing to cool his ardor. It only tinged it with apprehension. 

He finally arrived at Lascelles’ door and, heart in his throat, knocked gently on it with the back of his knuckle. He was surprised when the door swung open almost immediately to reveal Lascelles standing on the other side. The man looked...soft. He was in pyjama bottoms and a faded t-shirt, his copper hair disarrayed, but not from a careful styling in front of the mirror. Just messy as if he’d just been lying in bed. He looked incredibly innocent, incredibly touchable, and he stepped aside to welcome Childermass in without saying a word. 

Childermass entered, jacket still on, motorcycle helmet in one hand and watched as Lascelles shut and locked the door behind him. “You can put your things on that sofa if you’d like,” Lascelles said. His voice, like his appearance, was soft and a little dreamy. Childermass wondered if the man might be on some sort of drug, but he complied anyway, shedding his jacket and placing it, with the helmet on top, on the sofa that sat just inside the door of the flat. 

He had just straightened up from doing this when Lascelles was suddenly in his personal space, his mouth on Childermass’ mouth, his warmth and softness pressed against Childermass in the most pleasing way. Childermass let out a surprised grunt before kissing him back, and wrapped his arms tightly around Lascelles’ waist as Lascelles’ arms came up around his shoulders. This kiss was softer, still urgent, but it lacked the sharp edge of what they’d done against Lascelles’ car earlier that day. 

Surprisingly, he did not taste any traces of alcohol or marijuana on Lascelles’ lips. Dared he hope that this lovely, soft fragility was a thing Lascelles wanted and needed? Not some drug fueled whim? His eyes too had been lust blown, not the pinprick pupils of someone in the throes of a heroin high, nor did he appear to be amped up in any way...

Lascelles melted against him and let out a sigh and Childermass pulled him even closer as the kiss deepened, as the soft slide of lips and tongues became faster and more urgent. For a while, all they did was kiss. It was glorious. And terrifying. Childermass kept expecting the other shoe to drop. For Lascelles to break the kiss and insult him. Demand that he leave, or come up with some daft ultimatum or threat out of nowhere. But, as the kiss continued, growing ever hungrier, and as Lascelles fingers drove their way up into Childermass’ still shower-damp hair and caressed his neck and jaw, Childermass began to relax and simply enjoy it. 

Lascelles certainly sounded as if he were enjoying it as well. His soft sighs and little moans against Childermass’ mouth increased in volume as Childermass’ hands grabbed him by the hips and pulled them more snugly together. He had plastered his body against Childermass and when Childermass’ hands dared to grab fistfuls of the man’s firm arse and squeeze, Lascelles made a sharp, desperate noise and rolled his hips. 

“Bedroom,” Lascelles whispered against Childermass’ lips, and Childermass nodded eagerly. They somehow made it to the bed, walking awkwardly while still embracing and without breaking the kiss for the few steps it took to enter the doorway to the bedroom and then fall upon the bed in a tangle of limbs. Lascelles was on top of him now, grinding down on him, and Childermass’ hands were roaming over the long plane of his body, smoothing their way across his wide shoulders and then wrapping briefly around his waist and then grabbing him again by the arse and pulling him in tight. Lascelles made that lovely sobbing noise that meant he was enjoying the attention, and Childermass dared to smile against the man’s mouth. 

“What do you-” he began saying, wanting to ask what Lascelles wanted, what he needed. To discover more about where this physical interaction was going. But Lascelles put a finger to his lips and shook his head. The universal sign for  _ don’t speak _ . Childermass, for a split second was insulted, but then he realized Lascelles' ploy. He wanted this night to exist outside of their verbal sparring. Lascelles wanted to let go of the combative side of their association and revel in the physical. It would not surprise Childermass in the slightest if Lascelles asked him to leave after sex, or if he reverted to his old ways immediately post coitus. Or even if he wanted to turn the lights off so that they could enjoy this rare cease fire in the safe anonymity of a darkened bedroom. 

Lascelles did not turn out the lights. He simply didn’t speak, and Childermass followed his example, letting his hands and mouth communicate in non-verbal ways. He pulled Lascelles’ shirt up and off, and then rolled them onto their sides so that he could do the same. Lascelles’ hands were eagerly working at the button of Childermass’ trousers, and then undoing them and pulling them off, before he slipped out of his own pyjama bottoms. Once they were nude, Childermass expected Laselles to press against him and kiss his mouth again, but instead, the red haired man kissed Childermass’ neck, sucking and nipping his way down to Childermass’ collarbone while Childermass lay back and groaned at the feel of it. Lascelles found his nipple and teased it with his tongue and Childermass made a sharper noise and thrust his hips up in response. This apparently pleased Lascelles who spent a moment or two, sucking at the puckered flesh of one nipple while toying with the other with his fingers, and Childermass arched up off the bed and gasped at the pleasure, at the bolt of electricity that seemed to go straight to the head of his prick. 

By the time Lascelles mouth left his nipple and began leaving a wet, messy trail of kisses down onto Childermass’ sternum and then the top of his belly, it was clear where he was headed. Childermass put his hands into Lascelles’ already messy red hair and lifted his head to watch. 

And what a sight it was. Lascelles, his copper hair against his alabaster skin, pale eyelashes brushing the tops of his lust flushed cheeks, his mouth open and hungry as he pressed kiss after kiss down the length of Childermass’ stomach. A thing of beauty. He was beautiful. Patrician and delicate and vulnerable looking, and Childermass would have said so if the man wasn’t so very untrustworthy and vindictive. 

He did not have long to contemplate Lascelles’ flawed character, because the man reached Childrmass’ throbbing cock and sank his mouth down on it without preamble, and Childermass’ mind at that point went utterly blank. He cried out and gripped his hands in Lascelles’ silky red hair and watched in awe as the man took almost all of his length inside his mouth, and then, after the briefest pause, rose to the tip before sinking down again. He was an accomplished cocksucker and Childermass’ eyes fluttered and rolled back as the exquisite pleasure surged through him from Lascelles’ clever mouth. As he sucked Childermass, Lascelles attended to himself, stroking his own cock rapidly, moaning around Childermass length. It was a stunningly erotic sight.

With how worked up he had been, it didn’t take long before he felt the first warning tingles of his impending orgasm. Lascelles seemed to sense this too, and he pulled up and off Childermass with an indecent noise. He smiled up at Childermass through his lashes, an impish, mischievous smile that almost had Childermass grinning back, and then climbed up to lay on top of Childermass and crush their mouths together. 

Childermass moaned to taste himself on Lascelles lips and rolled them both over so that he was now on top. He thrust down against Lascelles, feeling them rub together. His spit-slicked cock jutting against the silky, dry skin of Lascelles’ cock. Lascelles, sensing the lack of friction, flailed a hand out to the bedside table, grabbing a small bottle of lube. He opened it one handed and pushing Childermass aside by the hip, he squeezed a long, gleaming stripe of the syrupy liquid down the length of his cock and a twin streak down Childermass’ tortured flesh. He threw the bottle aside, and grasped both of their cocks in one, pale, long fingered hand, slicking them both with a few expert strokes. This had Childermass’ head falling against Lascelles’ collarbone as he let out a sharp cry at the feel of it. Lascelles’ hand on him, the feel of their cock’s moving together, freshly slicked… he hoped he could last long enough to enjoy this sensation for more than a few seconds. 

Lasceles did not keep stroking however. He pulled Childermass on top of him and then it was clear what he wanted. Childermass gave an experimental roll of his hips, sliding them together, and both he and Lascelles’ let out low moans at the delicious friction. 

It was over far too quickly, but Childermass could not fight the intense pleasure for long. He set himself to kissing Lascelles, wet and messy and thrust down and against the man with long, slow, measured rolls of his hips. Lascelles keened against his lips and arched up to meet him and he could feel the man’s hands gripping his hips and urging him onward. He buried his hands back in Lascelles' hair, tightened them into fists, and then with one last, slow thrust, he exploded. His hips jerked and he spilled against Lascelles’ stomach, adding extra heat and slickness to his movements. He heard Lascelles let out a muffled, ragged noise and felt the man stiffen beneath him, and then felt more hot wetness as he too ejaculated. 

The waves of intense pleasure took a long time to ebb and fade away. They continued moving together, enjoying the sticky slide of their combined emissions and kissing deeply for a while afterward. But, like all truly messy sexual experiences, lust eventually faded to a feeling of mild discomfort. Lascelles wordlessly but not unkindly pushed Childermass off him and left the bedroom. He returned shortly with a pair of damp flannels, using one to wipe at the mess on his chest and belly while handing the other to Childermass to use to clean himself with. They accomplished this task, still in silence, and then Lascelles did turn off the light. 

Surprisingly he did not ask Childermass to leave. Even more surprisingly, he climbed into bed beside Childermass and wrapped a leg around his low waist and flung a long, white arm over Childermass’ chest before nuzzling his face into the crook of Childermass’ neck. Within seconds, he was asleep. 

Childermass lay there, stunned. He would not have been more surprised if Lascelles had pulled out a gun and pressed it to his temple. In fact, the gun was more in character than the gentle, affectionate embrace he was now receiving. He lay there, for a long time after Lascelles fell asleep, reveling in the feel of the man’s soft, warm body, smelling his scent of expensive cologne, mixed with the faint smell of freshly spilled semen and clean sweat. 

Lascelles was a deep sleeper. When Childermass experimentally lifted Lascelles’ hand and interlaced his oil stained fingers with Lascelles long, pale ones, the man didn’t budge or make a sound, other than his deep even breathing. Childermass looked at their interwoven fingers and felt something soft and dangerous struggling to bloom inside his chest. He swiftly disentangled his hand from Lascelles’ and laid it back down, and fought to stamp out this soft feeling. He wanted to grind that softness with his heel into the proverbial dirt, to excise any and all affection he might feel for this maddening, horrible mess of a man. Lascelles would not like it if he knew Childermass was feeling this way. Lascelles would hate it if Childermass became affectionate, became fond… 

  
  


Childermass took in a deep breath, watching Lascelles, long, pale hand rise and fall with the movement of his chest. Lascelles’ hand looking like a white bird against Childermass’ dark hair. He eventually fell asleep, but it was like falling asleep in the arms of a slumbering tiger. What would happen when he woke? Which version of Lascelles would he find in bed next to him? The tender lover? Or the hateful rival? Still, he was worn out, and pleasantly so. As sleep crept up to pull him under, his last memory was of Lascelles’ very soft snore in his ear. 

  
  
  
  


When he woke, neither version of Lascelles greeted him, for he was in the man’s bed alone. And it was already half past ten in the morning. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes and shoes, feeling strangely more refreshed than normal when waking up in a strange place. Stumbling out of the bedroom and to the sofa, he fished his mobile out of his jacket pocket and winced as he saw three missed calls from Norrell.  _ Fucking Lascelles _ . Hadn’t had the decency to wake him up. The bastard had probably snuck out quietly  _ on purpose _ with the express intention of  _ not _ waking Childermass. 

Childermass shrugged on his jacket and grabbed his motorcycle helmet. There was a note taped to the door. 

_ Don’t worry about the flat door. Downstairs will lock automatically after you _

Well, it wasn’t a love note, but Childermass hadn’t expected one. He made his way down to the street and rode back home feeling a strange mix of emotions. Firstly, he had the perky energy of having had a spectacular fuck the night before, but mixed in with this singing, vibrating surge in his belly and across the surface of his skin was a nervous pool of apprehension over what he would find when he arrived at Norrell’s. He was almost certain Lascelles would already be there. Why wouldn’t he? If he had a fonder regard for Childermass, he’d want to see him again soon, especially after the seering hot sex from the night before. But, if he wanted to do what was more typical of Lascelles’ cruel and capricious personality and find a way to one up Childermass, he’d also want to be at Norrell’s. 

And just as he’d suspected, Lascelles’ glossy red roadster was in Norrell’s drive when he pulled Brewer into the garage. Childermass mentally prepared himself for whichever version of Lascelles he’d find as he went quickly to his room for a quick shower and a change. Then he made his way down to the study.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this fic took a turn. It's going to get into some themes of redemption and... some other stuff. 
> 
> It's all finished, 9 should be up soon, along with 10. Thank you all for your wonderful, thirsty, trashy comments. You fuel my childercelles soul <3

He entered the study to a familiar scene. Lascelles and Norrell, sitting on opposite sides of Norrell’s desk, deep in conversation. Norrell looked up when Childermass entered, but Lascelles (predictably) kept his eyes down on the page they had been perusing together. 

“Childermass!” Mr. Norrell exclaimed, somewhat irritably. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all morning!” He took his wire rimmed spectacles off in order to glare at Childermass as disapprovingly as possible with no barriers between them.   
Childermass shrugged, opting to play it casual. “I overslept sir. Must be working too hard,” he winked. 

Norrell gave a grudging smirk. This was something of a routine of theirs. If Norrell was ever a touch overbearing, Childermass would tease him gently to let him know. And since Norrell had called him four times this morning so far, and since Childermass very rarely ever shirked his duties for any reason (the last time had been when he’d been in bed with food poisoning some three years ago now), Norrell quickly relented. 

“Alright, I’ll forgive you this one time,” he said, which was precisely what he’d said three years ago. 

“Anything you need this morning sir?” Childermass asked, still ignoring Lascelles as Lascelles was ignoring him. 

“Could you please write to that irritating publisher and ask him why my copy of Ormskirk’s book hasn’t arrived?” Norrell asked, already half absorbed back into his work. “It’s been three bloody weeks.”

“Of course sir. Anything else?” 

“No thank you Childermass, that will be all.”

“Good day sir,” Childermass replied. He didn’t bother saying anything to Lascelles. Clearly the soft intimacy and the stunning sex they’d experienced last night had not bled over into this morning for the other man, who avoided Childermass’ eyes while he leafed through a small pile of papers on Norrell’s desk.

Childermass turned and left. He spent the remainder of the day at his normal tasks. He called the publisher and used his Threatening Voice to wrest a tracking number and a promise out of the man that the book had been sent two days ago and would be here by the weekend at the latest. He stopped by to say hello to Hannah in the kitchen and was gifted with a pastry just out of the oven, along with a wink and a smile. He paid a few household bills, checked the oil in Norrell’s car and filled out order forms for new supplies of fresh paper, along with a new ink cartridge for Norrell’s clunky old printer. 

He tried not to think of Lascelles and failed repeatedly. The way Lascelles’ face had looked, the tip of his nose pressed into the soft flesh of Childermass’ stomach as he’d lavished wet kisses down toward Childermass’ cock. The urgent, weak noises he’d made in response to Childermass’ touch. His head was filled with these images, these memories of the night before. No matter how many times he tried to refocus exclusively on the task at hand, Lascelles’ copper hair or his white skin or his dark brown eyes would weave their way into his mind.

The fact that the other man had quite blatantly ignored him in the study a few hours prior was not particularly concerning. They weren’t an item. They weren’t dating. They’d slept together once, and Lascelles did not look like the boyfriend type. In fact, Childermass had to chuckle to himself at even thinking such a thing in jest. Lascelles had “casual fuck” written all over him. His hot and cold emotions, his imperious demands and dismissive attitude. He wasn’t warm, wasn’t open to deeper feelings. And yet…he’d wrapped himself around Childermass last night like a regular lover would. He’d made love to Childermass in the most thorough and breathtaking way possible, without holding anything back. There had been nothing but softness and the sharing of pleasure last night. No hint of the cold, calculating, manipulative social climber that Childermass was forced to deal with during the day.

He decided in the end to try his best not to overthink the situation. He’d just see where it led. Not make any moves. Certainly not after their rendezvous of the prior evening. The ball was in Lascelles’ court. As far as Childermass was concerned the ball would always be in Lascelles’ court. The last thing Childermass wanted was to put himself out there and let Lascelles’ reject or insult him. He’d play it as cool as he could and simply see what Lascelles did next. 

So of course what he did next was atrocious. 

It was the end of the day. Childermass was relatively certain that Lascelles had gone home a few hours ago. No more sexy pictures had showed up on Childermass’ phone, which was regrettable, but Childermass was not about to send one of his own. 

He had dinner with Hannah and Davey, a rare curry take away that they shared, along with a few lagers and some laughs over little trials or misunderstandings during their days. Davey was courting a new girl from town and Hannah and Childermass mocked him gently about it. Hannah’s grandmother wasn’t doing well, and she was going to have to ask Norrell for some time off to help take care of her. 

It was half past eight when Childermass’ mobile began to ring. His pulse started to race as the first digital notes of the mobile’s ringtone spilled out of his jacket pocket. He fished the mobile out with nervous fingers, only to find out that it was Norrell calling. Tamping down his immediate disappointment, he picked up.

“Hullo sir,” he said amiably.

“Childermass, can I see you for a few moments?” Childermass heard a familiar tone in his employer’s voice and it put him instantly on the defensive. It was the tone Norrell used when he had something to tell Childermass that he knew his employee would not like. 

“Alright sir. Up in a minute,” Childermass rang off, grinning at his supper companions, hiding his worry from them. “Duty calls,” he said, keeping his voice light and unconcerned. They nodded back, assuming it was just one of the many little tasks Norrell asked for outside of normal work hours. 

Childermass was within his rights to ignore his employer’s calls after the hour of six in the evening, when his work day officially ended, but he rarely did. He’d respond to Norrell’s requests for help, usually up until he himself either went out for the evening, or went up to his room to prepare for bed. What else did he have to do? And, truth be told, he enjoyed helping Norrell. Enjoyed having another person rely on him for so many things. He supposed that at his time of life, having no children or close family, and being a person who enjoyed doing things to care for those in his life, he found a sort of satisfying fulfilment in caring for Norrell. In being such a large part of the bulwark that held Norrell’s life together. 

Norrell’s voice on the phone however had set off small alarm bells inside Childermass’ head. His employer could be cantankerous at times, if the weather were foul or a book he wanted was not up for sale, or if his bad knee was acting up. He was relentlessly introverted and sometimes single mindedly self absorbed, but there were also many times when he crawled out of his shell and joked around with Childermass. Times when Childermass was blessed with his employer’s boyish smile, so incongruous with the rest of him. And then there were times when Norrell sounded displeased. Not just grumpy. Not simply put out because something wasn’t going his way, but seriously unsettled by something. This was one of those times.

He climbed the stairs to Norrell’s study with a tension in his stomach that was souring the supper he’d just eaten. The door was left slightly ajar, and he pushed it slowly open and entered, finding Norrell, standing in front of his desk, apparently deep in thought. He looked up when Childermass’ footfalls sounded against the thinly carpeted floorboards, and frowned. 

“Childermass, hello,” he mumbled, and that worried, concerned tone to his voice was there again, saturating even those few, short syllables. Childermass swallowed thickly, forcing his feet to carry him closer to the small, worried looking man in the well worn jumper standing in front of his crowded desk. 

“What is it sir? You don’t sound happy.” 

“I’m not Childermass. I’m not.” Norrell looked up at him furtively, his blue eyes blinking, his mouth a grim line. “I wanted to talk to you about something in private.”

“Well, here I am,” Childermass couldn’t help the slightly impatient note in his voice. Let's get this over with, he thought. 

“It’s about Mr. Lascelles,” Norrell said, biting at his lower lip, and Childermass felt a shiver of apprehension mixed with an embarrassing tendril of sexual excitement uncurl in his belly at the mere mention of the man’s name. 

“What about him sir?” Why must Norrell be like this? Just spit it out already. 

“He said some things about you that I found highly concerning,” Norrell said.

Fucking Henry Fucking Lascelles. Childermass’ face went hot with a flash of sudden anger. Of course. Of course he wasn’t finished with being a little shit. “And why don’t you tell me what it is that he said sir, let's not beat about the bush,” he said feeling his fists clench in apprehension at his sides. 

“Well, Childermass, to be quite frank, he told me that he thought you were unstable, and that he feared that you would someday grow violent, and that… that there was a distinct possibility that you were stealing from me. Pilfering money from my accounts, sneaking books out of the library to sell to the highest bidders. Things like that.”

“Things like that…” Childermass repeated Mr. Norrell numbly, unable to fully comprehend what he was hearing. 

“Yes, Childermass. I don’t need to tell you that it upset me greatly to hear him say such things.”

The sour feeling in Childermass’ stomach turned to a cold ball of dread. Lascelles was actively trying to sever his connection to Norrell. It was clear now. He’d hinted at it with his smarmy little comments calling Childermass’ knowledge of which books Norrell would want to purchase into question the other day. Childermass’ mouth went dry and his face and neck burned with embarrassment and barely suppressed rage. It was a good thing that Norrell had dropped his eyes. The older man was looking at his ink-stained fingers, seemingly lost in thought over how likely it was that Childermass would utterly betray him. Based on the words of a quasi-stranger. If he hadn’t looked down, he’d have seen a very unsettling look on Childermass’ face and think Lascelles’ portents were closer to coming true than he’d probably previously assumed. 

His mother’s words echoing in Childermass’ head, as they often did during times like these. Never let them see you hurt. Never let them see you hurt. He’d thought of those words when one of his punters had gotten a bit too rough with him and bloodied his lip. He’d thought of those words when the man from the shelter where he’d been staying, a man he’d genuinely thought he could trust, had stolen his last tenner. It was money he’d fully intended to use to buy himself a new pair of socks for his blistered feet and some food the following day. He thought about those words when the woman who’d first said them to him had locked him out in a fit of rage. She’d locked him out and hadn’t opened the door back up again, disowning him and utterly breaking his heart in one fell swoop. 

And now, standing before his oldest and dearest friend, the man who supplied him with a comfortable living, a nice cozy place to lay his head, with friendship and stability, he thought about those words again. Never let them see you hurt. The words sounded more hollow than they ever had before. If Norrell rejected him, asked him to leave. If Norrell believed the accusations of a man he’d known for only a few months over the faithful companion and assistant who’d worked with and for him tirelessly for two decades, well, Childermass was afraid that the hurt he’d feel would be too much to hide. 

Norrell remained maddeningly silent for so long that Childermass could not help himself. The dread and anger he felt bubbling up inside pushed its way out of his mouth, gentling and becoming more diplomatic from years of practice as it passed his lips in the form of a few stiff words. “And what do you think of what he said sir?” 

Norrell remained silent. 

“Mr. Norrell,” Childermass couldn’t help a sharp edge making its way into his voice, a ragged hint of desperation. 

Norrell looked up at him distractedly. “What was that Childermass?” 

Childermass blinked. “I...didn’t you hear me sir? I asked you what you thought of Lascelles’ accusations.” 

“Oh, well, he’s clearly delusional,” Norrell said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve no idea where he got such preposterous ideas.” He peered at Childermass, his small eyes narrowing in a rare moment of emotional perception. “You didn’t think… you didn’t imagine that I’d.. believe him did you? Jesus Childermass! What sort of fool do you take me for! You’re my most trusted companion.” 

Childermass felt relief spill through him in a heady rush. He felt his face split into a wide grin that was part a cover for the tears that threatened to accumulate and spill from his eyes, but also from pure, unfettered happiness. “Oh no, of course not sir.” His voice broke only a little bit, but he doubted that Norrell noticed. The man was already lost in thought again. 

“No Childermass, what I was worried about was whether or not I can keep up my association with this horrible fellow now that he’s shown his true colors. He’s helped me so very much with the writing and editing of the novel, but if he’s going to make such base accusations, about you, of all people...well… I’m not sure I want him hanging about.”

Now that the dread of being cast out was swiftly fading, Childermass could see Lascelles ploy for what it was. The need to separate Childermass from his connection to Norrell so that Lascelles himself could play a bigger role in Childermass’ life. So Lascelles could be there to pick up the pieces when Childermass fell apart. 

He doubted the man had even done it consciously. He’d simply seen the deep connection Childermass had with Norrell and held it up against his own need to have more of Childermass’ time and attention. His mind instantly flashed back to their brief but madly passionate snogging in the drive, when Lascelles had asked to come to Childermass’ room, only to be told that Childermass could not because he was dedicated to working… for Norrell. It was all coming clear. The man didn’t even realize the depths of his toxic behavior. Childermass could not help but feel a small pang of pity for how warped Lascelles sense of personal relationships had become. 

Putting these revelations aside temporarily, Childermass chuckled warmly. “No need to worry sir,” he replied, keeping his voice light. “He’s a soft, posh London boy. He’s probably never met a bloke like me before, and I scared him. I can be a little dour sometimes.” He would deal with Lascelles in his own way, without endangering the work he helped Norrell with on the new book. 

“That you can,” Norrell mumbled, grinning affectionately. “Face like a hatchet you’ve got.” It was a term of endearment, one that Norrell had used now and then throughout the years, and its reappearance now made warmth bloom behind Childermass’ breastbone. 

“Face like a hatchet,” he repeated fondly. “Don’t worry about Henry Lascelles. Tell him you’ll keep an eye on me, just to humor him, and let him keep coming. I could do with the entertainment. And besides, he’s a rare gem where your book’s concerned. A bonafide descendent of your old Mr. Lascelles. Can’t give im up so easily now can you?”

Norrell’s worried expression fled, to be replaced by one of his rare, boyish smiles. “That’s a good sport!” he chirped, patting Childermass awkwardly on the shoulder. “That’s precisely what I’ll do. I’m sure he’ll leave off his wild imaginings once he gets to know you better.”

“I’m sure he will,” Childermass replied with a grin, tinged with a darkness Norrell almost certainly did not notice. 

He bid Norrell a good night and went up to his room, got undressed and got into bed. As he lay in the darkness, looking up into the shadows that splashed across his bedroom ceiling, feeling a strange mix of love and anger, he thought seriously about exactly how he’d deal with the problem of Henry Lascelles.


	9. Chapter 9

Childermass avoided the study as often as he could over the course of the next few days. He did not communicate with Lascelles by mobile and did not speak to the man when the execution of his daily duties brought him into the study and near Lascelles. Lascelles ignored him as well, which was unsurprising. 

Childermass kept a carefully neutral expression when he was in Henry Lascelles’ presence and kept his voice light, unconcerned, casual. He could tell this unnerved Lascelles a little. The man’s movements faltered, became a little less certain, his voice a little louder when Childermass entered a room. Once he even knocked over a stack of papers, which had Norrell frowning as Lascelles rushed to pick them up and form them back into a neat pile. 

Once, when Childermass replied to Norrell, he looked in Lascelles' direction and caught the man’s eyes on him. Lascelles flicked his eyes away from Childermass’ face immediately, but at that point it was too late. He’d been caught. This made Childermass unreasonably happy. He’d already half forgiven Lascelles for his ill timed and tone deaf attempt to sour Childermass’ relationship with Norrell, but resentment and distrust still lingered. Along with the resentment came a particularly sharp stab of disappointment that would lance through him at the most unexpected of times throughout his day. He’d hoped that they’d be able to settle on a truce. Enough to allow Childermass to sleep with Lascelles’ a few more times. Or even to set up a casual affair that might have some small chance of longevity. The sex had been astoundingly good, and Childermass was dismayed (though not surprised) to discover that Lascelles attempts to ruin Childermass’ life hadn’t worked very well to cool the flash of lust he felt far too often when he looked at the red haired man. 

But despite the fact that Childermass thought of touching Lascelles’ naked body more than he should, resentment and anger still simmered under the surface of his desire. There was still this nagging embarrassment he felt at being so taken in by Lascelles’ charms. It told him that he hadn’t shaken off the dependency and the toxic patterns of his younger years as much as he’d hoped. His visits to a therapist, his reading books on psychology and boundaries and relationships had apparently not sunken in adequately, hadn’t erased the depth of the traumas he’d experienced in childhood and young adulthood that made Henry Lascelles feel like home. If he was reduced to a lustful mess by an arrogant prick like Lascelles, then clearly he still had some healing left to do. 

The silence between them stretched for almost three days. Lascelles showed up each day and spent the entirety of those days, shut up in the study with Norrell. If Norrell mentioned his talk with Childermass to Lascelles, he didn’t let on, and Lascelles’ behavior didn’t change in any noticeable way, and so Childermass assumed Norrell hadn’t brought it up. 

There were no new dirty pictures. No more videos. Childermass had just enough self esteem and presence of mind not to wank to the old ones. Lascelles’ blatant betrayal could be overlooked, but only if Childermass didn’t reach orgasm with the aid of a picture of the man’s cock  _ whilst  _ he did the overlooking. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to stand himself. 

He was settling in for the night on the evening of the third day after his talk with Norrell when a soft knock came at his door. He had no idea who it might be. It was unlike Davey or Hannah to ever disturb him in the evenings, (despite how many times he’d wistfully imagined that Hannah would). He hadn’t undressed for bed yet, and so he walked to the door and opened it. 

He was beyond surprised to see Henry Lascelles standing on the other side. The man was dressed in a dark pair of jeans and a black button down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. He looked at Childermass briefly when the door swung open, and then looked away immediately, letting his eyes rest on some point a few inches above Childermass’ left shoulder. 

Childermass stuffed down the spark of hope he felt at having Lascelles standing on his doorstep at half past ten in the evening. “What do you want?” he demanded, not letting anger color his tone, but not letting any softness into it either. 

“I came because you overpaid me for the damage you inflicted to my car,” Lascelles had adopted the cold, haughty look that seemed to be his resting facial expression. His mouth held the echo of a sneer, his eyes, dark and unreadable and not quite reaching Childermass’ face, still hovering over his shoulder. “I know you’re probably strapped for cash, so I can’t in good conscience keep the extra money.” He held out his hand with a wad of cash gripped in his fingers and offered it stiffly to Childermass. 

“That’s bollocks and we both know it,” Childermass replied, smoothly, calmly. “You don’t give a toss about my money. You just had to see me again.” 

Now, Lascelles eyes did finally move to Childermass’ face, and there was a threatening spark of anger reflected in their flinty depths. “I did no such thing. You-”

Before he could finish whatever he planned on saying next, Childermass grabbed the man by his shirt front and hauled him past the doorway and into his room. He shut the door behind Lascelles, locking it, and then pushed him up against it, none too gently. 

“Come clean Henry, you  _ cold, fucking snake _ ,” he growled into Lascelle’s face, getting close, crowding him against the door, his hands still fisted in the material of the other man’s shirt, ruining the clean, tailored lines of it, rucking it up. As if he could pull Lascelles apart just as easily. “You’re here to gauge just how much your little stunt with Norrell might have affected me.” He gave Henry a shake and watched with pleasure as the man’s eyes went wide with fear and his mouth fell open. “You’re here because you can’t  _ stand  _ me not reacting to your manipulative little games. Because you’re a sick,  _ twisted fuck _ , and because you  _ like me _ and that’s doing your head in.”

Something about Lascelles’ pale, shocked face and how good it felt to grip the man and shake him, say things to him he sorely deserved to hear, was giving Childermass a warped sense of satisfaction. But also, there was a sort of catharsis. He didn’t care if Lascelles got mad, threatened him, walked away and never spoke to him again. The copper haired man he was pressing against the door of his bedroom had now become a representation of all the toxic, horrible people he couldn’t seem to stay away from. And Childermass had  _ things _ to  _ say _ . 

Lascelles clearly hadn’t expected this turn of events. This direct, physical confrontation. He clearly wasn’t educated on what happened when you pushed a rough man to his limits. Now, he looked like a rabbit who’d accidentally wandered into the cave of a hungry wolf, and the glint of fear in his eyes was perversely and highly exciting to Childermass. 

“I’ve done no such thing,” Lascelles stammered out. “I can barely stand you, I...I”

“Oh, you can stand me I think,” Childermass said cutting in, his voice going velvety and threatening. “You can stand quite a bit of me. From my perspective, it looks an awful lot like you’re bloody  _ obsessed _ with me. Digging around in my past, finding my number. Sending me dirty pictures of your hard cock. Trying to queer things with my employer. Henry, you are a fucking mess over me. You should stop embarrassing yourself and just admit it.”

Lascelles eyes went hard, but before he could say a word, Childermass closed the distance between them and crashed their mouths together. It was just like the first time. Lascelles met him with rough fervor, immediately pressing against him, letting out a sharp moan and kissing back, like a man dying of thirst, goes after a single sip of water. There was no adjustment time. No awkward phase in which Lascelles oriented himself from anger to lust. The two were too close together in his lexicon of emotions. 

Childermass knew this could escalate quickly, so he pulled back after a brief but maddening clash of lips and teeth and tongues. “Maybe you’re telling the truth,” he gasped against Lascelles’ open mouth. “Maybe you don’t  _ like _ me all that much, but your body can’t get enough of me.” 

“Fuck you,” Lascelles said and without warning, he slapped Childermass’ face. 

Childermass cursed at the surprising sting across his cheek and without missing a beat, slapped Lascelles back. Violence for violence. He watched as Lascelles cheek reddened and his mouth dropped back open in surprise. Apparently, he thought slapping Childermass would be met with compliant acceptance. He clearly had some lessons to learn. 

Childermass got his hand around Lascelles’ neck and pinned him to the door. “That’s right  _ love _ ,” he added an ironic twist to the endearment. “I can play rough too, if that’s what you want.” 

“Get your hands off me,” Lascelles hissed from between his teeth, his heart pounding against Childermass’ palm, his chest rising and falling sharply as Childermass kept him pinned to the door. 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t fucking love it,” Childermass growled back. To help illustrate his point, he pressed the flat of his other hand to the front of Lascelles’ jeans and felt the stiff cylinder of an impressive erection bulging there. Lascelles whined and squirmed under his hand, and pressed into the palm Childermass had around his throat. His body was indeed betraying his mouth, responding to Childermass’ rough touch with urgent longing. 

“Still want me to let you go?” Childermass asked, cocking his head to the side and studying Lascelles as calmly as he could. He was breathing just as hard, and his own erection was throbbing, straining against the material of his trousers. He leaned his pelvis into Lascelles and they both let out a low moan at the sensation. “How about now?” Childermass asked, breathless but still maintaining control, still focused. “Say the word and you’re free to go.” 

Lascelles’ didn’t speak. Instead his hand flew up, clearly intending to slap Childermass again. This time though, his face tightened and the muscles of his upper arm twitched, warning Childermass that the hand was coming. Childermass caught him easily by the wrist and pinned his arm to the door. “That’s enough of that,” he said, and ground his hips against Lascelles, causing twin moans to spill from both men. Lascelles eyes rolled back in his head and a gasp escaped his lips. 

“I’m disappointed in you Henry,” Childermass whispered into the hot air between their mouths. “We could have had something special. I really did want to keep fucking you. But you’re making it so, bloody,  _ hard _ .” The last syllable of his sentence was accompanied by another slow thrust of his hips, driving their lower bodies together with stunningly pleasurable results. Lascelles was crying out now in sharp little moans, thrusting back. Childermass could feel all pretense of violence ebbing out of him as his body went softer and more compliant. 

He was dangerous like this. Melting against Childermass. His flush face and open mouth, begging to be kissed. Childermass longed to simply fuck the man. To wend his tongue into Lascelles mouth, wrap his arms tightly around him. He wanted to stop pinning Lascelles against the door and carry him to bed, and make love to him, just like the other night. But he couldn’t. Not when he still didn’t know the man’s intentions. 

“What do you want Henry?” he gritted out. “What the fuck do you want? Do you want to keep playing this sick little game indefinitely? What’s the end goal? Do you even know? Or are you so screwed up inside that your motives aren’t even clear to yourself?”

“I…” Lascelles tried to speak, but he seemed overcome by lust, his eyes, when they opened and tried to focus on Childermass’ face were dilated and glossy. “I don’t know,” he admitted. 

“You can tell me that you fancy me,” Childermass said. “You can _ do _ that. You can just let down your fucking walls for two minutes and tell me you enjoy fucking me. It’s alright,” he smirked. “I won’t tell anyone,” he let an edge of humor enter his voice and was distantly pleased when Lascelles glared at him. 

“I don’t. I don’t  _ like _ you. I  _ hate  _ everything about you.”

“No, you don’t hate me,” Childermass effortlessly contradicted him. “You’re just too mixed up inside to recognize that you like me. Who fucking hurt you Henry, that you can’t express affection like a normal person? Not without doing it in total silence, or trying to stab the person in the back afterwards. Who kicked you when you were weak?”

“No one!” Lascelles shouted, and there was anguish in his voice, and Childermass was so surprised that he let go of the man’s neck and arm and leaned back. Lascelles thankfully didn’t move to strike him again. He simply stood there, still pressed against the door by Childermass’ body, breathing heavily, his face flushed, his eyes sharp and wounded. “No one hurt me!” He spat out. “No one did anything to me! My parents barely knew I existed!” 

_ Ah, here we go _ Thought Childermass with a flush of triumph.  _ Now we’re getting somewhere. _ “You were neglected,” he said out loud.

“Don’t fucking try and psychoanalyze me John,” Henry barked. “Everyone has distant parents. I don’t want your pity.”

“You don’t have my pity, you prat,” Childermass shot back. “And  _ everyone’s  _ parents were  _ not _ distant. Just yours... and mine,” he added after a split second’s thought. A peace offering in their mini war.  _ Hey look! I’m broken in a similar way! _

“I’m nothing like you,” Henry sneered. 

“Perhaps not, Childermass responded. “But something in how you were broken fits quite well with the way I was broken. Jagged puzzle pieces that fit together.”

Lascelles’ sneer only grew deeper. “Oh, you’re a poet now,” he said, flippant, using snark as a defense. 

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life on a fucking island Henry? Just you and your good taste and your nasty attitude? No one else?” Childermass stepped away from him, giving him space. Letting him storm out if that’s what he truly wanted. 

Lascelles seemed disappointed. Of course he was. He thrived on drama. Childermass calmly telling him what lay beneath his obnoxious defenses was clearly not how he’d pictured this evening ending. 

Childermass spread his arms and gave Lascelles a significant look. “What’s it to be Henry? You’re welcome to stay. We can have a very good time of it. But I don’t want you in my bed if you have to pretend you don’t want to be there.” 

Henry Lascelles looked torn. His gaze roamed swiftly down the length of Childermass’ body and Childermass could see the hunger in his eyes, but also, there was fear and anger. He wasn’t accustomed to healthy communication. He wanted things messy and violent and uncertain. 

“You don’t even have to say it,” Childermass offered, going farther than he ever remembered going, offering more special consideration than he ever had previously to get someone into his bed. “You just need to come over here and kiss me. That’s all.”

Childermass watched as Lascelles fought a small battle with himself, his jaw clenching, his eyes searching Chidlermass’ face. He was likely unused to feeling such tumultuous emotions for a person without hiding it behind a smoke screen of passive aggression or manipulation. 

What Childermass was asking him to do was to come clean, essentially. To drop the facade of aloof condescension and simply do what he’d done the first time they’d slept together. To offer himself up without acting as if he were lowering himself, or acting as if it were something he’d stumbled into by mistake. Without the luxury of sex being a silent, no questions asked oasis in the middle of a false reality where they pretended it wasn’t happening. 

They were in the real world now. Not in Lascelles’ flat on Lascelles’ terf. Not playing by Lascelles’ rules any longer. He had to come to Childermass of his own volition and request the sex with a simple kiss, and by doing so, admit that he wanted Childermass, above and beyond his petty games and his thick walls. 

Lascelles hesitated a heart pounding moment longer, but then, he stepped cautiously away from the door and over to Childermass, stepped up close. Childermass could smell the now familiar scent of the man’s shampoo and that was apparently enough to get him right back to the state he’d been in when pressing Henry up against the door, moments ago. Lascelles drew close, leaned in and pressed his lips to Childermass’. 

Childermass felt a spark of glee burst to life inside his chest. As if he were a wildlife photographer who’d spent months earning the trust of some feral creature that was now tentatively eating out of his hand. 

He carefully encircled Lascelles’ waist with his arms and drew the man in, deepening their kiss effortlessly, sliding his tongue between Lascelles lips. He felt the vibration of the Lascelles’ deep moan through the connection of their mouths and returned it with one of his own. 

Things swiftly accelerated from there. Their kiss became messy and urgent. Lascelles’ hands spread their way up Childermass’ back and gripped him by the neck and jaw as Childermass grabbed Lascelles by the arse and pulled them tightly together. Lascelles groaned as the friction reignited between them. He broke the kiss and whispered, “Be rough. I won’t break,” and Childermass smiled. He clenched his hands in the firm flesh of Lascelles’ backside and bit into his bottom lip, just to show the man he meant business and Lascelles shuddered against him and let out a whimper. 

They walked awkwardly to the bed while still kissing messily and attempting with limited success to remove articles of clothing. Both by mutual, silent agreement worked at the buttons of their own shirts, a task their hands could accomplish more swiftly by dint of having more practice at it. Soon their shirts were open and their jeans undone and pooling on the floor about their feet. Lascelles toed his way out of his black trainers and kicked his shoes and trousers to the side as Childermass broke the kiss and bent to undo his boots. When he stood up again, Lascelles was standing before him, completely naked. His long, pale body exposed to the slightly chill air of Childermass’ bedroom, air that raised goose pimples along the flesh of his arms and chest. His cock, stiff and pink and beautiful.

“Jesus,” whispered Childermass, swiftly pushing his pants down and off. Then he too was naked, and taking Lascelles in his arms to kiss him again. Feeling Lascelles’ silky skin pressing down the length of Childermass’ body, the hot throb of his thick cock against Childermass’ thigh. 

Their mouths fit together more easily now. They were growing used to each others’ bodies, and that was a thing Childermass had not experienced in a long time. He tried not to think about it too much as Lascelles tongue and lips, wet and soft mingled with his. Remembering what the other man had said about roughness, Childermass pressed their mouths together more forcefully with a hand clenched hard in the hair at the back of Lascelles head. He raked his short, blunt nails down the pale skin of Lascelles back, likely leaving red tracks in their wake. Lascelles whined high in his throat and bucked against him. 

“Get on the bed,” Childermass whispered. “I need your mouth on my cock.”

Lascelles, in an act of surprising obedience, turned and climbed up onto the bed and Childermass followed him. He settled against the pillows and watched with a sort of spellbound awe as Lascelles quickly positioned himself, lying on his side near Childermass’ groin and sank his mouth down on Childermass’ cock in one swift, fluid movement. “Jesus Christ,  _ fuck _ ” Childermass said as Lascelles’ hot mouth engulfed him. He clenched double fistfuls of the man’s hair and fucked up into his mouth with small pulses of his hips, unsure as to how much Lascelles could take. But the red haired man looked pleadingly at him and groaned around his cock, nodding his head in a silent request for more. And so Childermass tightened his fists in Lascelles’ hair and fucked his mouth in earnest. 

Lascelles took everything, making small, silly choking noises in the back of his throat, which might have made Childermass giggle if he weren’t so incredibly lost in the intense pleasure of Lascelles’ insane skills at giving head. Lascelles’ cheeks hollowed and bowed around Childermass’ shaft, his eyes watering and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and down his flushed cheeks as Childermass fucked his mouth. The way Lascelles so clearly enjoyed being used this way was only adding to the mind bending heat and tingling pleasure of the blowjob Childermass was receiving. Or rather  _ giving _ . He was giving Lascelles his prick in short, sharp stabs of his hips, pulling the man’s head down against him just a little with the hands he had clenched in Lascelles’ hair. 

He knew he’d come soon if they kept this up, and he almost let it happen, almost let himself explode inside Lascelles’ eager mouth. For a split second, he considered coming on Lascelles’ pretty, flushed face, but that would be messy  _ and _ derail proceedings so that Lascelles could clean himself off. And who knew how long it would be until Childermass could get an erection again. It had been a few years since he’d had a two shot night, and at 44, it was best to save up for one, big climax. 

At the last minute, when he could feel the building pressure in his balls and he began to climb to a peak he would not be able to come back from, he pulled Lascelles off of his cock. The man hung by Childermass’s fists in his hair, his eyes lust blown and black, his face a wet, blushing mess, mouth slicked and bruised with the force of Childermass’ thrusts. 

“Just look at you,” Childermass said. And then he grabbed Lascelles by the shoulders and pushed him down onto his back on the bed. He wanted to return the favor,  _ needed _ to taste Lascelles’ prick. Lascelles was happy to let him. He lay back and stroked Childermass’ hair, no tight fists or face fucking for him apparently, of which Childermass was glad. He wasn’t much for being treated roughly. 

Lascelles tasted amazing. The salty sweet of his skin, the heat and fullness of him inside Childermass’ mouth, it was almost enough to push him over the edge, just from sucking the other man. It didn’t help that Lascelles let out a series of the most insanely sexy noises when he was receiving head. He gasped and moaned and gently canted his hips up into Childermass’ mouth and made exclamations. “Oh god,” “oh fuck,” and Childermass’ personal favorite, a phrase that made him ache, “Oh fuck  _ John _ .” 

Before long, Childermass eased Lascelles out of his mouth with one last long, slow suck and went to fish in the bedside table for his small bottle of lube and a condom. 

When Lascelles saw the lube and the prophylactic, saw Childermass unwrap and roll the condom on and pour the sticky liquid into his palm in preparation to slick himself with it, he moaned and arched his back. Childermass had to still his hand on his cock for a second to bring himself back down. The sight of Lascelles’ writhing and ready beneath him was almost too much. 

After he’d gotten himself reined back in, he got onto his knees between Lascelles’ legs. Lascelles’ obligingly lifted and bent his legs, exposing himself, making himself available. It struck Childermass again how docile and loose and soft the man was being. Was he always like this in bed? He wondered if Lascelles’ other lovers saw this side of him, or if it were only something Childermass was allowed to see. No point in thinking about such things at a time like this. He slicked his fingers and probed Lascelles opening with one of them. 

“Fuck me, come on, do it,” the man rasped out, bucking his hips against the gentle probing of Childermass’ finger.

“So demanding,” Childermass replied with a grin and drove his finger home, deep into the tight heat of Lascelles’ body. He swiftly added a second finger and a third and pumped them in and out of Lascelles while the copper haired man writhed and gasped in response. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Childermass couldn’t help the words that fell out of his mouth. The way Lascelles’ felt, gripping at his fingers, welcoming the intrusion to his body with ease, it was a thrilling preview. 

“Shut up and put your cock in me,” Lascelles said, but his voice was soft and breathless and didn’t match his words at all. 

Childermass hoisted Lascelles long, slender white legs over his shoulders, lined himself up and sank home with one, slow stroke. They both moaned long and low, and in unison as Childermass bottomed out. He sat still for a moment, unsure that he could move without coming. He looked down at Lascelles’ red, sweat damp face, into the man’s dark, dilated eyes and struggled to hold back words he knew would not be well received. To keep from speaking, he eventually found the strength to pull out a few short inches and slam his way home again. Lascelles cried out and grasped at his hips and thrust up with his own, asking for more, needing more. Childermass accommodated him and began a slow volley of strokes. He was moaning, low and continuously in his throat and Lascelles was uttering a series of short, sharp cries every time Childermass buried himself and pulled back again. 

After a few moments, Lascelles surprised him by pressing back with his hands against Childermass’ hips to stop his movements. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “I want to ride you,” 

Childermass, nodding, pulled out slowly, and obligingly lay on his back and Lascelles climbed up to straddle him. The other man reached for the discarded lube bottle and used it to re-slick Childermass’ aching cock before lining himself up, lodging the head of Childermass’ latex covered prick against his opening and slowly sinking down on him to the hilt. 

“Oh fuck,” Childermass gasped, and Lascelles let out a soft whimper before he began to move his hips. He rocked back and forth on Childermass’ cock, pleasuring himself at his own pace, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his own long thighs. He was stunning, gorgeous. His flame colored hair in total disarray, his mouth softly gaping, his breath leaving his lungs in little gasps as he worked himself on Childermass’ cock. Lascelles cock stood stiff and leaking and neglected between them, and so Childermass put a gentle hand around it, not to startle the man when his eyes were closed and began to stroke him slowly. 

“Oooh,” Lascelles let out a low groan and moved a little faster. “Oooh  _ God _ ,” he breathed. 

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” Childermass knew he’d said too much the moment the words left his lips. He saw Lascelles eyes fly open and fix on him, soft and unfocused. The man slowed the pace of his rocking and then stopped moving all together. Childermass meanwhile, ceased the movement of his hand on Lascelles’ cock, looking up at him, trying to gage his response.

Childermass expected him to hurl an insult, to make a snide comment. To spoil this newfound intimacy with sarcasm. But he didn’t. Instead, Lascelles’ eyes took on a curious glint. “Am I?” He asked. 

“Aye,” Childermass responded without thinking, holding still and waiting, breathless to see what Lascelles did or said next. “Aye, you are,” he added for good measure. Why not? The most he’d have to pay for those words would be a wounded sense of pride and a swiftly aborted sexual experience. He’d suffered worse. 

“Tell me... why,” Lascelles said cautiously, and Childermass was surprised to hear the vulnerability behind the words. 

“Your hair,” he offered, unable to hold it back any longer. “It’s bright red color, how it looks against your white skin, it’s...it’s lovely.”

“Yes?” Lascelles prompted gently, beginning to increase his pace again, and Childermass swallowed back a moan from the friction. “Anything else?” The vulnerability was still there. It was the tone of a man who is a little afraid to hear something painful in response to his question, and so Childermass chose his words carefully. 

“Your eyes too,” he said, taking hold of Lascelles’ cock, which had flagged a little in the intensity of the moment and began to stroke him again, slowly. “They’re so dark, so pretty.” 

Lascelles was looking down at him with something akin to wonder on his face. The eyes in question, very dark just now, and very softly focused, were tightening at the edges from pleasure as he sped the pace of his hips still more. “Oh John,” he whispered, as if he’d just realized something, put the pieces of a puzzle together and was surprised by the picture it revealed. 

Childermass realized that once he’d started speaking, he didn’t seem to have the desire to to stop. “These legs,” he gasped, letting go of Lascelles cock so that he could run his dark hands up the length of Lascelles long thighs. “How long and lean and pale they are. I’ve thought about them, wrapped around my waist.”    
  


“Fuck,  _ oh fuck _ ,” Lascelles gasped, the words coming out on a gust of breath. He leaned over and braced himself with his hands against Childermass’ chest and in doing so, changed the pace and angle of everything, how everything felt. Childermass gasped. 

“Those pictures you sent me, they did my head in,” Childermass confessed, spilled the words like a fool, his voice rough and low. “I brought myself off so many times to those pictures.” 

“I thought about you, doing that,” Lascelles made his own confession, and it was quite possibly the first sincere compliment Childermass had heard from the man. “I came so hard, thinking about you, looking at me,” 

“I see you now,” Childermass locked eyes with Lascelles. “I see you,” he repeated, and then he reached up and grabbed Lascelles by the neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Lascelles collapsed against his chest and his mouth melted against Childermass’ lips. Childermass wrapped his arms around the man’s narrow frame and fucked up into him, fast and hard. 

Lascelles moaned, loudly and rhythmically into the kiss and Childermass answered him. The friction between their bellies must have been enough to push Lascelles to the brink because he let out a series of high pitched moans and Childermass felt him coming. He felt the hot flush of semen spill between them, and felt Lascelles body clenching rhythmically around his cock, and then he too tumbled over the edge. His orgasm pounded through him, almost too sharp in its intensity. He was distantly glad that they were kissing, so that he did not have the opportunity to verbalize how he felt in that moment. 

He continued to fuck Lascelles, moaning against his lips, topping from the bottom, for a while afterward, as they kept kissing. Neither of them seemed to want the moment to end, the pleasure to fade. But eventually, Childermass softened and slipped out of Lascelles and Lascelles ceased moving, disengaged carefully so as not to dislodge the condom, and lay against Childermass’ chest. He pulled away from the kiss and buried his face in Childermass’ neck and rested there. Childermass kept his arms around Lascelles and reveled in the sense of contentment and wonder he was feeling.

If the first night they’d spent together Lascelles had been a sleeping tiger, this night was different. This night he was a formally aloof house cat. The kind that snubs you repeatedly, and then does you the horrible disservice of curling up into a ball on your lap and falling asleep. And you’re so irritatingly honored that this snob of a creature finds you comfortable enough and safe enough to lose consciousness while lying on top of you, that you dare not move for fear of waking them. Childermass dared not move. And so he simply lay there, impervious to the mess and sweat of their lovemaking, feeling their hearts beating against each other, holding his enemy in his arms and staring at the ceiling, slightly stunned by what had just transpired.

After a few minutes, Lascelles groaned and peeled himself away and sat up. “Be a good host and fetch us a cloth,” he said, peering blearily down at Childermass, a small frown on his face. Childermass had to chuckle a little at the return of the spoiled brat. Only mind bending sex could stop the man from being a prat for five minutes stitched together. He gently shoved Lascelles off of him and rolled out of bed, tip toeing to the loo to dispose of the condom and grab a towel and a wet flannel. 

When he turned to go back into the bedroom, Lascelles was standing there, blinking in the bright neon light. “A shower is probably better,” he remarked. 

Childermass was only shocked for a moment. He wordlessly turned on the water, tested it to make sure it was piping hot but not blistering, and then he and Lascelles stepped into the shower together. It wasn’t a romantic affair, spent lovingly soaping each other up and kissing. They cleaned themselves off swiftly and efficiently. But there was a small moment when Childermass passed Lascelles a bar of soap and the man took it and grinned at him from under a fall of water-dark copper fringe that fell into his eyes. Childermass grinned back and suppressed a strong urge to lunge at Lascelles and kiss him. 

They towelled off swiftly in the cool air and climbed back into bed. Childermass did not ask Lascelles to stay the night. That would be a step too far, even on an evening as groundbreaking as this one. And yet, Lascelles stayed anyway. And he curled himself around Childermass again, warm and clean and languid, his long limbs thrown across Childermass, his face buried once more in the side of Childermass’ neck. Again, he fell asleep within seconds. Childermass stayed awake a while longer, envying his bed partner his ability to lose consciousness so thoroughly and quickly. Trusting that his movement and his touch would not wake Lascelles, Childermass stroked the long forearm that was currently flung across his chest, marveling at how a man could be so pale. Did he actively avoid the sun? He must have some Irish in him to have such a pale complexion and such red, red hair. He drifted off to sleep, his fingertips resting against the softness of Lascelles’ skin. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: FLUFF

Eight months later, Norrell published his book. It was very well received. The reading public were charmed by the tale of the York Society and their stodgy obsession with theoretical magic, as well as by Norrell’s and Lascelles’ ancestors, and their obsession with practical magic. They were doubly charmed to discover that the direct descendents of the Gilbert Norrell and Henry Lascelles from the book not only went by the same names, but had co-authored the novel to a degree. Norrell and Lascelles made a few appearances on talk shows and did a few magazine interviews. Norrell only participated at the strong urging of Childermass, who knew his employer would appreciate the extra money, and how the exposure would stir up interest in the book. Lascelles of course, needed no such urging.

The Practical Magician climbed to the top of The Sunday Times and The NY Times bestseller lists within two months of its release, and Norrell’s household celebrated the news with champagne. Lascelles, who’d gone back to London months ago, returned for one of his visits for the occasion. 

Childermass and Lascelles’ relationship was a thing that started and developed at a glacial pace. Lascelles would breeze into town once a month and spend a few nights at Childermass’ place, or Childermass would go over to Lascelles’ rented flat. They didn’t go on day dates or exchange text messages (outside of filthy pics and videos that were quite common). They didn’t stroll through markets together or go to the cinema or hold hands in public. But they saw one another regularly, and the sex only got better. 

It was an open relationship. The alternative, monogamy, was not appealing to either of them. They didn’t openly decide upon this arrangement, rather, they mentioned their flings to each other casually and without drama or jealousy, and that simply felt right. It just fit them both to keep things open and flexible. Childermass still occasionally indulged in one night stands and Lascelles still dated the odd pretty lad that could accompany him to his posh clubs in London, but they returned always to each other. Childermass did not need to be acknowledged as Lascelles’ official partner. Why would he, when he had the best parts of Lascelles when he wanted them? 

They grew to know each other outside of the sex in a cautious manner. Lascelles would mention his upbringing, or his past relationships, or his thoughts on things, and Childermass would respond in kind. They got to know how the other liked their coffee, their tea. Favorite foods. Favorite films. There were no Christmas gifts or birthday presents. Once though, Childermass came back upstairs to his room after a visit from Lascelles to find a very expensive new leather jacket, draped casually across the bed. In response, Childermass had a bouquet of two dozen red and white roses sent to Lascelles’ office, with a note attached that simply said ‘Prat.’ He knew Lascelles would appreciate them. 

Childermass didn’t often travel to London. He found it not to his liking, and so Lascelles far more often came to visit him. 

Sometimes their lovemaking was quite kinky. Lascelles thoroughly enjoyed a stunning amount of pain and rough treatment in the bedroom, and Childermass happily complied. Sometimes though, they were soft together, and those were the times that Childermass struggled with the most. Neither had confessed any concrete feelings, or any feelings whatsoever for that matter. It felt wrong somehow. Or perhaps just a step too close to a sort of vulnerability that neither was prepared to admit to. There were nights though, When they lay wrapped up in each other’s arms after a particularly spectacular fuck, Childermass would stroke Lascelles’ silky hair and mouth the words, silently into the air of his bedroom. He only did this when he was sure that Lascelles was unconscious. 

Lascelles was never particularly warm. He wasn’t built for warmth. Not more than the after sex snuggles he gave so freely and so incongrously. But once, a year into their arrangement, they were standing by the stove while Childermass cooked them dinner in Lascelles’ flat. They were arguing over the best way to cook a steak. Lascelles was extolling the virtues of the sous vide, while Childermass called him a “posh twat” and was pushing for the merits of a regular outdoor grill. Childermass wasn’t cooking steak for dinner, he was making a beef stew, but the debate had broken out anyway. They often took whatever excuse they could to banter and argue back and forth. A semi-constant sparring that perhaps took the place of other words that were less comfortable to say. 

Childermass was expounding on how unsettling it was to slowly boil a piece of perfectly good meat until it turned into a gray lump, when he felt Lascelles’ fingers gently interlace with his own where their hands hung between them. He stammered and stumbled a little over his words, as hand holding was not a thing Lascelles ever engaged in outside of sex. 

“Shhh,” Lascelles silenced him by leaning in and giving him a peck on the lips. A soft press that cut off Childermass’ words as suddenly as if Lascelles had slapped him instead. “Shush up now love,” Lascelles said, his eyes going soft and a small, fond smile playing about his lips as he pulled away. “You’re far too handsome to be this stupid,” he said, and then he leaned back in and kissed Childermass in earnest. Softly and gently, and then with more and more urgency until Childermass had to turn the flame under the stew pot off and drag Lascelles to bed. That softness, the rare compliment, it had been Childermass undoing. When he came, he whispered “I love you,” into Lascelles' hair. Lascelles didn’t say it back, but he squeezed Childermass’ body to him more tightly for a brief moment, and that was all the confirmation Childermass needed. 

_____________________

Childermass read Norrell’s book almost immediately after it was published. He always received the first copy that Norrell laid his hands on, and Norrell always signed it the same way. To my dear friend, John Childermass. It was indeed an excellent book. Humorous and self aware, with lots of fascinating footnotes. Lascelles' influence was all over it, adding a sharp wit to Norrell’s usually rather dry narration. It was ironically by reading about 1800s Lascelles that Childermass learned how he might have been part of the force that saved the current Lascelles’ life. 

Henry Lascelles in The Practical Magician had died of a knife wound from a jealous husband after debauching a series of wealthy men’s wives and stealing their valuables. He’d been a vain, self centered, possibly sociopathic social climber. Very much like the current day Lascelles, although Childermass now knew that his lover’s appearance of sociopathy was all a front for his wounded heart, and that there was actually genuine warmth beneath current day Lascelles’ coldness. There had apparently been no such warmth under 19th century Lascelles' unctuous exterior. He’d worked well with 19th century Norrell because they’d had a common goal, and possibly because both had been insufferable men. While reading the book, Childermass thanked his lucky stars for never having had a boss like Gilbert Norrell the elder. Despite his good working relationship with 19th century Norrell, 19th century Lascelles had not been what anyone would call a ‘good person’.

Modern Lascelles could very well have ended up on a lonely island of his own making if Childermass had not forced him to face his icy walls and made headway in melting them. 

It was not that Childermass saw himself as the man’s ultimate savior. He wouldn’t presume something so lofty. He more saw himself as a pebble in the road, that random bump that sends ones’ bicycle wheel off in a different direction. He’d been part of the force that had deflected Lascelles from a life spent isolating himself behind a barrier of competitiveness and snark and vindictive passive aggression. Norrell had been another pebble. Together, they’d jostled Henry Lascelles into a new, healthier place. 

Lascelles regularly stopped in to visit Norrell on trips to York, so the pair could trade gossip about the literary world and pat each other on the back over their success. It helped Norrell to have a new friend, almost as much as it helped Lascelles to have an association that wasn’t built solely on opportunism or sex. 

Childermass wondered, as he lay in Lascelles’ arms the night he confessed his love for the other man, about the could-have-beens. He thought of all the times Lascelles could have stormed off and never come back. Of all the times things could have made a left turn and gone violent rather than lustful. He was impressed by the random set of coincidences that brought this maddening man into his bed and into his heart. In the end, none of it really mattered. They were who they were, and they’d end up where they ended up, together or not. But looking back, Childermass would not have changed a thing. 

He let unconsciousness slowly creep up and claim him in the gentle warmth generated by their embrace. Beside him Henry Lascelles stirred briefly in his sleep, pulled Childermass closer, and mumbled something about roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this fic into an opportunity to heal the trauma of the Lascelles/Norrell/Childermass relationships from the book, but couldn't actually redeem 1817 Lascelles. He's just too evil. But I _could_ conceivably redeem a Lascelles born 200 years later who hadn't yet killed anyone. 
> 
> I started this fic wanting to write about dick pics and ended it wanting Norrell to choose Childermass over Lascelles. This may be frightfully OOC, but these are not the same people they were 200 years ago, so I'm hoping readers can suspend their disbelief. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading! <3


End file.
